JANE 
JOURNEYS  ON 


COMFORT  MITCHELL 


JANE    JOURNEYS     ON 
RUTH  COMFORT  MITCHELL 


'SAY,  GIRLIE,  DIDN'T  i  TELL  YOU  I'D  PUT  THE  RAISIN  IN  IT?" 


JANE  JOURNEYS  ON 

BY 

RUTH  COMFORT  MITCHELL 

AUTHOR  OF 


D.   APPLETON   AND   COMPANY 
NEW  YORK     ::     1922     ::    LONDON 


COPYRIGHT,  1922,  BY 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Copyright,   1918,  by  The  International  Magazine  Co. 

Copyright,   1919,  by   McCall  Co.,   Inc. 

Copyright,    1916,    1917,   by    the   Century   Co. 

Copyright,  1919,  by  the  Crowell  Publishing  Co. 

PRINTED     IN    THE     UNITED    STATES     OF    AMERICA 


TO 

W.  C.  MORROW 
GUIDE   AND    FRIEND, 
WHO  HAS  SET  SO  MANY 
OF     US     ON     OUR     WAY 


M532974 


JANE  JOURNEYS  ON 

CHAPTER  I 

WITH  but  one   exception,   everybody  in 
the  upper  layer  of  life  in  that  placid 
Vermont  village  was  sure  that  Jane  Vail 
was  going  to  marry  Martin  Wetherby.    The  one 
exception  was  Jane  herself ;  she  was  not  sure — not 
entirely. 

There  were  many  sound  and  sensible  reasons 
why  she  should,  and  only  two  or  three  rather  in 
consequent  ones  why  she  should  not.  To  begin 
with,  he  was  a  Wetherby,  and  the  family  went 
steadily  back  in  an  unbroken  line  to  Colonial  days ; 
it  was  their  grave  old  house  with  the  fanlight  over 
its  dignified  door  which  had  given  Wetherby  Eidge 
its  name.  He  was  doing  remarkably  well  at  the 
bank ;  it  was  conceded  that  he  would  be  assistant 
cashier  at  the  first  possible  moment;  his  habits 
were  exemplary  and  he  was  the  most  carefully 
dressed  young  man  in  the  community.  His 
mother  freely  admitted  at  the  Ladies'  Aid  and 
the  Tuesday  Club  that  he  was  as  perfect  a  son  as 

1 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


any  woman  ever  had,  and  that  he  would  one  day 
make  some  girl  a  perfect  husband. 

Jane,  after  long  and  rebellious  thought,  could 
find  nothing  to  set  down  on  the  other  side  of  the 
ledger  beyond  the  fact  that  he  was  just  a  little 
too  good-looking,  that  he  was  already  beginning, 
at  twenty-six,  to  put  on  the  flesh  which  had  al 
ways  been  intended  for  him,  that  his  hands  were 
softer  than  hers,  with  fingers  which  widened  puf- 
fily  at  the  base,  and  that  she  nearly  always  knew 
what  he  was  going  to  say  before  he  said  it. 

She  was  twenty-four  years  old,  and  the  im 
memorial  custom  of  that  village  gave  her  a  scant 
remaining  year  in  which  to  make  up  her  mind.  All 
girls  who  ran  true  to  pattern  were  either  snugly 
married  or  serenely  teaching  by  the  time  they  were 
twenty-five,  and  the  choice  was  not  always  their 
own.  There  had  been  more  marriageable  maid 
ens  than  eligible  youths  in  the  set,  and  it  was 
rather,  Jane  told  herself  grimly,  like  a  game  of 
Musical  Chairs — a  gay,  excited  scramble,  and 
some  one  always  left  out.  Now,  with  the  exodus 
of  a  few  and  the  marrying  of  many,  it  had  nar 
rowed  down  to  three  of  them — herself,  Martin 
Wetherby,  and  Sarah  Farraday,  who  was  her 
best  friend  during  childhood  and  girlhood;  and 
Sarah,  an  earnest,  blonde  girl  with  nearsighted 

2 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


eyes  and  insistent  upper  front  teeth,  had,  so  to 
speak,  stopped  playing.  She  had  converted  her 
dead  father's  old  stable  into  a  studio  by  means  of 
art  burlap  and  framed  photographs  of  famous 
composers,  and  was  giving  piano  lessons  daily 
from  ten  to  four.  This  left  the  field  entirely  to 
Jane,  and  Jane  was  carrying  about  with  her  an 
increasing  conviction  that  she  was  not  going  to 
do  the  thing  every  one  expected  her  to  do. 

It  came  curiously  to  a  crisis  on  a  mild  and  un 
important  day  in  November.  Jane  spent  a  foot 
less  forenoon  in  her  own  room  in  the  green-shut 
tered,  elm-shaded  house  where  she  lived  with 
her  adoring  Aunt  Lydia  Vail,  trying  to  start 
a  story.  Miss  Vail  took  great  care  to  tiptoe  when 
ever  she  passed  her  door,  and  refrained  from  sum 
moning  her  to  the  telephone,  but  her  pleasant  old 
voice,  explaining  why  her  niece  could  not  come, 
was  clearly  audible. 

"Yes,  dear,  she's  at  home,  but  she's  at  work  at 
her  writing,  and  you  know  I  never  disturb 
her.  .  .  .  Yes,  she's  been  shut  away  in  her  room 
since  right  after  breakfast.  .  .  .  Yes,  it's  a  new 
story,  but  I  don't  know  what  it's  about.  I'll  ask 
her  at  dinner.  .  .  .  How's  your  mother,  dear? 
.  .  .  Oh,  that's  good!  That's  what  I  always  use 
and  it  never  fails  to  relieve  me.  You  give  her  my 

3 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


love,  won't  you?  I'll  have  Jane  call  you  up  when 
she  comes  out  for  dinner. " 

The  story  simply  would  not  start.  It  lay  inert 
in  the  back  of  her  brain,  listening  for  the  telephone 
and  Aunt  Lydia's  softly  padding  footfalls,  and  at 
last  she  gave  it  up  and  got  out  the  paper  she  was 
to  read  on  "The  Modern  Irish  Dramatists'*  before 
the  Tuesday  Club  that  afternoon  and  went  care 
fully  over  its  typed  pages. 

"Oh,"  said  Aunt  Lydia  at  the  dinner  table,  her 
plump  face  clouding  over,  "I'm  sorry  the  story 
didn't  go  well!  It  wasn't  because  you  were  inter 
rupted,  was  it,  dear?  I  was  especially  careful  this 
morning.  You  know,  I  believe,  without  realizing 
it,  you're  just  the  least  mite  nervous  about  your 
program.  I  know  I  am  myself,  though  I  know,  of 
course,  you're  going  to  do  just  beautifully." 

Three  and  a  half  hours  later,  thirty-four  ma 
trons  and  spinsters  were  warmly  asserting  that 
she  had.  They  smiled  up  at  her  where  she  stood 
on  the  shallow  little  platform  with  approval  and 
affection,  and  the  Chairman  of  the  Program  Com 
mittee  said  she  was  sure  they  were  all  deeply  in 
debted  to  Miss  Vail  for  a  most  enlightening  little 
lecture.  "I  am  free  to  confess,"  she  said,  smiling, 
"that  it  is  a  subject  upon  which  I,  personally,  have 

4 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


been  ignorant,  and  I  believe  many  of  our  club 
ladies  would  say  the  same." 

Jane,  looking  down  into  their  pleasant,  best- 
family  faces  knew  this  was  the  fact.  The  word 
" Irish"  conveyed  to  most  of  them  only  the  red- 
armed  minions  in  their  kitchens ;  the  boys  who  ran 
noisily  up  alleyways  with  butchers '  parcels;  the 
short-tempered  dames  in  battered  hats  who  came 
— or  distressingly  did  not  come — to  them  on  Mon 
day  mornings,  and  who  frequently  bore  away  with 
them  bars  of  perfectly  new  soap ;  and  the  chuckles 
and  sobs  and  moonlit  whimsies  of  Yeats  and  Synge 
and  Lady  Gregory  did  not,  in  their  minds,  connect 
up  at  all. 

4 'And  now,"  said  the  President,  in  her  sweet 
New  England  voice,  "I  know  you  will  all  wish  to 
express  your  appreciation  both  to  the  Chairman 
of  our  Program  Committee,  who  has  arranged  so 
many  literary  treats  for  us,  and  to  Miss  Vail  for 
her  delightful  paper  by  a  rising  vote  of  thanks." 
Then  the  thirty-four  ladies  of  the  Tuesday  Club 
clutched  at  their  gloves  and  handbags  and  came 
to  their  feet  with  soft  rustlings  of  new  foulards 
and  taffetas  and  rich  old  silks,  and  the  President 
declared  the  meeting  adjourned  but  trusted  that 
every  one  would  remain  for  a  cup  of  tea  and  a 
social  hour. 

5 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Martin  Wetherby's  handsome  mother  took  brisk 
and  proprietary  charge  of  Jane  and  shared  her 
laurels  happily.  "Yes,  indeed/'  she  beamed,  her 
gray  crepe  arm  through  the  girl's,  "I  can  tell  you, 
we're  pretty  proud  of  her!"  She  had  clearly 
cast  herself  already  for  the  role  of  adoring  and 
devoted  mother-in-law,  and  the  Tuesday  Club  was 
just  as  clearly  taking  the  same  view  of  it. 

Jane,  in  her  wine-red  velvet  and  her  glowing, 
gipsy  beauty  against  the  sober  blacks  and  grays 
and  faded  cheeks  of  the  gathering,  looking  like 
a  Kentucky  cardinal  alighted  in  a  henyard,  felt 
her  smile  stiffening.  Sudden  and  inexplicable 
panic  and  rebellion  descended  upon  her ;  it  seemed 
certain  that  if  she  heard  Mrs.  Wetherby  say 
"proud  of  this  dear  girl  of  ours"  once  again  she 
would  scream.  She  disengaged  her  arm  and  de 
clined  tea  and  little  frosted  cakes. 

"I'm  so  sorry — it  looks  so  tempting,  doesn't 
it  f— but  I  really  must  fly ! "  She  looked  earnestly 
at  her  wrist  watch.  "This  very  minute!  Thank 
you  all  so  much!  You've  been  wonderful — quite 
turned  my  head!  But  I  must  hurry!" 

Out  in  the  quiet,  pretty  street  the  sense  of  pur 
suit  fell  away  from  her  and  she  was  smiling  de 
risively  at  herself  when  she  reached  Sarah  Far- 
raday's  house  and  passed  through  the  side  gar- 

6 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


den  to  the  studio.    An  hour  with  old  Sally  would 
be  good  for  her. 

Sarah  was  tenderly  dusting  her  severe-looking 
upright  piano  and  putting  away  a  pile  of  lesson 
books,  and  turned  gladly  to  greet  her.  "Jane, 
dear!  Why,  how  did  you  get  away  so  early? 
Didn't  they  serve  tea?  I  was  just  sick  about  not 
going,  but  the  little  Macey  girl  has  had  so  many 
interruptions  and  is  so  far  behind,  and  she  does 
want  to  play  at  my  recital,  so  that  I  felt  I  couldn't 
put  her  off  again.  How  did  your  paper  go?" 

"Oh,  well  enough.  They  were  very  nice  about 
it." 

' '  I  know  they  loved  it.  I  want  to  read  it ! "  She 
closed  the  music  cabinet  and  came  to  take  the 
typed  manuscript.  "Why,  Jane!  What's  the 
matter?" 

"I  don't  know,  Sally— Yes,  I  do  know!  It's 
— it's  Mrs.  Wetherby,  and  every  one  else!  She 
acts  as  if — every  one  acts — "  it  made  her  angrier 
still  to  feel  the  color  mounting  hotly  in  her  cheeks. 

"Well,  Jane,  dear,"  a  faint,  sympathetic  flush 
warmed  her  small,  pale  face,  "isn't  that  perfectly 
natural?  Of  course,  I  suppose  it  teases  you,  but 
you  know  how  happy  every  one  is  about  it." 

"But  there  isn't  anything  to  be  happy  about — 
yet!" 

7 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


"Then  it's  just  because  you  have — have  held 
things  off,  dear,  that's  all.  And  I  think  Marty 
has  been  awfully  faithful  and  patient — for  years! 
Ever  since  you  were  tiny  kiddies!"  She  looked 
anxiously  at  her  best  friend 's  mutinous  face.  ' '  I  '11 
tell  you,"  she  said,  brightly,  "let's  run  around  to 
Nannie 's  for  a  moment !  She  '11  just  be  giving  the 
'Teddy-bear'  his  oil  rub.  I'll  run  through  the 
house  and  get  my  things — you  wait  out  in  front ! '  ' 

Nannie  Slade  Hunter  (Mrs.  Edward  E.)  was 
their  second-best  friend  and  they  had  been  among 
her  bridesmaids  two  years  earlier.  A  few  min 
utes  of  brisk  footing  through  the  fading  Novem 
ber  afternoon  delivered  them  at  the  Hunters'  new, 
little  house  and  in  the  nursery  of  their  little  son. 
Sarah's  knowledge  of  schedule  had  been  correct. 
Nannie,  in  an  enveloping  pinafore,  her  sleeves 
rolled  high,  her  hands  glistening,  was  anointing 
her  infant  with  the  most  expensive  olive  oil  on 
the  market.  The  house  was  furnace  heated  and  a 
small  electric  stove  was  radiating  fierce  warmth, 
and  her  cheeks  were  blazing.  Jane  and  Sarah 
flung  off  their  wraps  and  gave  themselves  whole 
heartedly  over  to  the  business  of  worship  and 
praise. 

Little  Mrs.  Hunter,  on  whom  matronhood  and 
maternity  sat  with  the  effect  of  large  spectacles  on 

8 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


a  small  child,  inquired  indulgently  into  the  activi 
ties  of  her  friends.  "  Paper  go  nicely,  Janey? 
Sorry  I  couldn't  go. — Yes,  he  was  his  muzzie's 
lamby-lamby-boy!  Yes,  he  was! — And  how  many 
pupils  have  you  now,  Sally?" 

" Seventeen,"  said  Sarah,  thankfully,  "and  if 
everything  goes  well  I'll  have  my  baby-grand  in 
four  years!" 

Edward  E.  Hunter,  unmistakable  father  of  the 
glistening  infant,  came  into  the  room  as  she  spoke 
and  at  once  propounded  a  conundrum. 

"Here's  a  good  one,  Jane!  What's  the  differ 
ence  between  Nannie  and  Sally?  Give  it  up? 
Why,  Sally '11  have  a  baby-grand,  but  Nannie  has 
a  grand  baby!"  The  hot  and  breathless  nursery 
rang  with  mirth ;  it  seemed  to  Jane  that  the  very 
pink  room  was  growing  hotter  and  hotter,  and  it 
smelt  stiflingly  of  moist  varnish  and  talcum  pow 
der  and  warm  olive  oil  and  expensive  soap,  and 
the  baby,  sitting  solemnly  erect  for  his  powder 
ing,  a  steadying  hand  at  his  fat  back,  looked  like 
a  pink  celluloid  Kewpie  leering  at  her  knowingly. 
She  heard  herself  saying  with  unconsidered  men 
dacity  that  she  had  an  errand  to  run  for  her  Aunt 
Lydia,  and  that  Sally  mustn  't  hurry  away  on  her 
account,  and  presently  she  was  down  in  the  dim 
street  again,  with  Edward  R's  jocose  reproach 

9 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


that  old  Marty  Wetherby  was  fading  away  to  skin 
and  bone  echoing  in  her  ears.  She  went  dutifully 
for  a  magazine  Miss  Vail  had  mentioned  and  went 
home  the  "long  way  'round,"  so  that  she  was 
barely  in  time  for  supper,  which  consisted  of  three 
slices  of  cold  boiled  ham,  shaved  to  a  refined  thin 
ness  and  spread  upon  an  ancient  and  honorable 
platter  of  blue  willow  pattern  ware,  hot  biscuit, 
a  small  pot  of  honey  and  two  kinds  of  preserves, 
delicate  cups  of  not-too-strong  tea,  sugar  cookies 
and  a  pallid  custard. 

Her  aunt  was  fond  and  proud  over  the  after 
noon's  triumph  but  didn't  quite  understand  her 
having  gone  away  so  abruptly,  and  feared  that 
Mrs.  Wetherby  had  been  "  just  the  least  mite  hurt 
about  it." 

"But  then,"  she  hastened  to  add,  at  Jane's  im 
patient  movement,  "it'll  be  all  right,  dear! 
You're  going  to  see  her  to-night,  and  I  know  you 
can — sort  of  smooth  it  over." 

"I  was  thinking,"  said  her  niece,  dark  eyes  on 
her  plate,  "that  perhaps  I  wouldn't  go  this  eve 
ning,  Aunt  Lyddy." 

"Not  go?  Not  go  to  Mrs.  Wefherby'sf  Why, 
— Jane!"  Miss  Vail  laid  down  her  fork  and 
stared,  her  mild  eyes  wide  with  astonishment. 
"You  aren't  sick,  are  you?" 

10 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


"I  think  I'm  sick  of  always  and  always  going 
to  the  same  places  with  the  same  person,  and  hear 
ing  the  same  people  say  the  same  things  I"  In 
stantly  she  wished  she  might  recall  the  sharp 
words,  satisfying  as  they  were  to  herself,  for  little 
Miss  Lydia  was  regarding  her  much  as  the  aunt 
of  the  wretched  girl  in  the  fairy  tale  might  have 
done, — the  girl  out  of  whose  mouth  a  frog  jumped 
every  time  she  opened  it.  Indeed,  the  sentence 
iseemed  actually  visible  between  them,  like  a  squat 
and  ugly  small  beast  on  the  shining  white  cloth. 
4  *  Sorry,  Aunt  Lyddy,"  said  Jane,  penitently. 
"I'm  a  crosspatch  to-night,  and  I  ought  to  sit  by 
the  fire  and  spin,  instead  of  gamboling." 

Miss  Vail's  face  cleared.  "No,  indeed,  dearie, 
it'll  be  much  better  for  you  to  go  and  have  a  merry 
time  with  your  young  companions.  That  paper 
was  a  nervous  strain,  that's  all!  Now  you  just 
feat  a  good  supper  and  then  run  upstairs  and  make 
yourself  as  pretty  as  you  can!"  Her  plump  face 
broke  up  into  sly  lines  and  she  nodded  happily. 
"Marty '11  come  for  you  at  quarter  before  eight; 
he  telephoned  before  you  got  home." 

Martin  Wetherby  was  even  better  than  his  word, 
which  was  one  of  his  most  sterling  traits.  He  ar 
rived  at  twenty-five  minutes  before  eight  and 
waited  contentedly  in  converse  with  her  aunt  until 

11 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Jane  came  down.  "I  didn't  bring  the  car,"  he 
said.  "I  thought  we'd  like  to  walk."  When  they 
reached  the  sidewalk  he  lifted  her  right  forearm 
in  a  warm,  moist  grasp  and  held  it  firmly  close 
against  him.  "The  car's  too  quick,  Janey,"  he 
said,  huskily.  "Gets  us  there  too  soon!" 

"Well,"  said  Jane,  brightly,  "we  mustn't  be 
late,  your  mother  likes  people  to  be  prompt,  you 
know!"  She  managed  to  tug  her  arm  away  the 
fraction  of  an  inch. 

"She  likes  you,  any  old  time,"  he  said,  bliss 
fully.  He  always  got  husky  and  thick  sounding 
in  emotion,  Jane  reflected,  and  breathed  heavily. 

"Aren't  we  going  to  stop  by  for  Sally?" 

"No;  I  asked  Edward  E.  and  Nannie  to  pick 
her  up  in  their  little  old  boat.  No,  we  aren't  go 
ing  to  have  anybody — but  just — us!"  He 
squeezed  her  arm  against  him  again.  "  Janey,  I 
guess  you  know  all  right  how  I " 

"Oh!"  cried  Jane,— "here  they  are,  now! 
Hello,  people!" 

"Hello  yourselves!"  said  Edward  E.  Hunter, 
bringing  his  machine  to  a  stop  beside  them. 
* '  Want  to  hop  in  ?  Plenty  room. ' ' 

"No,  of  course  they  don't  want  to  hop  in, 
goose!"  said  his  wife,  reprovingly.  "Edward  E. 

12 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


Hunter,  I  wonder  at  you !    Were  you  never  young 
yourself  ?" 

*  '  Oh,  but  we  do ! ' '  Jane  was  capably  opening  the 
front  door  of  the  little  car.  "We're  late!  I  kept 
Marty  waiting!  I'm  going  to  ride  with  the  chauf 
feur,  and  Marty  can  sit  with  the  girls.  When  Mrs. 
Wetherby  says  *  eight  o'clock'  she  means  it,  not 
quarter  past."  She  was  chatty  and  intensely 
friendly  with  them  all  during  the  brief  drive. 
She  even  produced  the  proper  degree  of  articulate 
mirth  for  the  young  father's  painstaking  jest 
about  his  son's  nickname  being  Teddy  b-a-r-e, 
bear,  most  of  the  time. 

When  they  stopped  before  the  Wetherby  house 
Martin  was  out  of  the  automobile  with  heavy 
swiftness  and  lifted  Jane  bodily  to  the  sidewalk 
and  hurried  her  up  the  walk.  "All  right  for  you, 
girlie,"  he  chuckled,  "all  right  for  you!  But  you 
just  wait !  Wait  till  going  home  to-night ! " 

Jane  drew  Sarah  Farraday  aside  when  they 
were  in  Mrs.  Wetherby's  phrase,  "taking  off  their 
things  in  the  north  chamber," — a  solid  and  de 
pendable-looking  room.  "Sally,  I  want  you  to 
come  home  with  me  and  stay  over  night." 

"Oh,  Jane,  I  don't  believe  I  could, — not  to 
night  !  If  I  'd  known  sooner —  I  haven 't  anything 
with  me." 

13 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


"I'll  loan  you  everything  you  need.  Please, 
Sally!  You  can  telephone  your  mother  now." 

"But  Edward  and  Nannie  brought  me,  and  it 
seems  sort  of " 

"Sally,  don't  be  a  nuisance!  I  want  you,  I — 
need  you!" 

Sarah  Farraday  peered  closely  at  her  through 
her  nearsighted  eyes.  "Jane!  You  haven't 
quarreled  with  Marty,  have  you?  Oh,  Jane!" 

"No,  but  I  shall  if  you  don't  come  home  with 
me!" 

Her  best  friend  looked  long  and  anxiously  at 
her  and  then  went  with  a  sigh  to  telephone  her 
mother,  and  the  evening,  which  Mrs.  Wetherby  de 
scribed  as  "a  little  gathering  of  the  young  folks," 
got  under  way.  Jane  played  cards  sedately  for 
the  earlier  part  of  it  and  joined  with  conscientious 
liveliness  in  the  games  which  came  later,  just  be 
fore  Mrs.  Wetherby's  conception  of  "light  re 
freshments"  was  served, — pineapple  and  banana 
salad  with  whipped  cream  and  maraschino  cher 
ries  on  it,  three  kinds  of  exceptionally  sweet  and 
sticky  cake,  thick  chocolate  with  melted  marsh- 
mallows  floating  on  its  surface,  and  large  quanti 
ties  of  home-made  fudge  in  crystal  bonbon  dishes. 

To  Martin  Wetherby,  watching  her  contentedly 
out  of  his  small,  bright  eyes,  Jane  yail  was  what 

14 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


he  and  his  mother  termed  the  life  of  the  party, 
but  although  she  played  an  unfaltering  part  in  the 
comedy  of,  "Well,  partner!  Didn't  you  get  my 
signal?  Now  who's  asleep?"  and  the  sprightly 
games  which  followed,  and  exclaimed  prettily  over 
the  decked  supper  table,  deep  under  the  high- 
piled  masses  of  her  dark  hair,  dark  thoughts  were 
stirring.  She  seemed  to  herself  to  be  marching 
inexorably  to  the  crossroads,  which  was  silly,  be 
cause  she  had  spent  exactly  that  sort  of  day  and 
evening  hundreds  of  times  before  and  would  again, 
she  told  herself  impatiently,  but  the  feeling  was 
not  to  be  eluded.  She  held  herself  up  to  her  own 
high  scorn.  Why  this  dramatizing  of  the  pleas 
ant  and  placid  course  of  Wetherby  Eidge  events? 
Why  shouldn't  she  do  as  the  other  girls  of  the  set 
had  done?  Was  she,  then,  so  much  finer  clay?  If 
she  didn't  want  to  be  another  Nannie — hot  pink 
nursery  in  a  shining  little  new  house — expensive 
olive  oil — home-coming  husband  in  punning  mood 
— pink  celluloid  Kewpie — half  a  dozen  of  every 
thing  in  flat  silver  and  two  really  good  rugs  to 
start  with — then  why  couldn't  she  cast  herself 
serenely  for  the  Sarah  Farraday  sort  of  thing, 
substituting  a  typewriter  for  a  piano?  There  was 
nothing  so  bleak  and  dreadful  about  that;  old 
Sally  was  busily  happy,  toiling  hopefully  for  her 

15 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


baby-grand.  She  was  enormously  lucky,  as  a  mat 
ter  of  fact,  lucky  beyond  her  deserts.  She  could 
be,  it  appeared,  a  Nannie  or  a  Sarah,  as  she  chose, 
and  the  time  for  choosing  had  arrived.  And  pres 
ently  the  girls  were  exclaiming  that  it  was  twenty 
minutes  past  eleven  and  they  really  must  go,  but  it 
was  Mrs.  Wetherby's  fault  for  always  giving 
them  such  a  perfectly  wonderful  time  that  they 
forgot  to  watch  the  clock,  and  Mrs.  Wetherby  was 
beaming  back  at  them  and  insisting  that  she  had 
enjoyed  it  all  just  as  much  as  they  had,  and  that 
she  hoped  she  could  always  keep  young  at  heart. 

Sally  lagged  behind  as  they  went  down  the  steps. 
'  ( Come  along ! ' '  Jane  called  back  to  her.  ' 1 1  know 
you'll  talk  half  of  what's  left  of  the  night,  and  I 
want  to  get  you  started  as  soon  as  possible." 

6 '  She  going  to  stay  all  night  with  you  ? ' 9  There 
was  sulky  surprise  in  Martin's  voice. 

*  '  Yes, ' '  said  Jane.  ' '  But  isn  't  '  stay  all  night '  a 
silly  expression?  As  if  she  might  rise  and  stalk 
home  in  the  middle  of  it !  I  wonder  why  we  don't 
say,  'stay  over  night'?"  She  ran  on,  ripplingly, 
but  her  escort  at  one  side  and  Sarah  Farraday  at 
the  other  were  maintaining,  respectively,  a  sullen 
and  an  uncomfortable  silence.  When  they  were 
passing  her  own  house  Sarah  broke  away  from 
them  with  a  little  gasp. 

16 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


"Oh, — do  you  mind  waiting  just  a  minute?  I 
believe  I'll  just  run  up  and  get  my  things,  Jane. 
You  know  what  a  fussbudget  I  am  about  my  own 
things.  And  I'll  just  slip  into  another  dress  so  I 
won't  have  to  put  this  on  for  breakfast.  It  won't 
take  me  two  minutes — "  She  flew  up  the  front 
steps  and  let  herself  softly  in  with  her  latch  key, 
and  instantly  ill  humor  fell  from  Martin  Weth- 
erby. 

"Sally's  all  right,"  he  chuckled.  "I'm  for 
Sally!"  He  swept  Jane  out  of  the  circle  of  light 
from  the  street  lamp,  into  the  black  shadow  of  the 
Farraday  shrubbery,  and  into  a  breathless  em 
brace.  "You — little— rascal — "  he  said,  huskily, 
gasping  a  trifle  as  he  always  did  in  moments  of 
high  emotion.  "You — little — witch!  Now  I've 
got  you — and  I  'm  going  to  keep  you !  Now  I  guess 
you'll  listen  to  what  I've  got  to  say  and — and  an 
swer  me !"  His  broad,  warm  face  was  coming  in 
exorably  nearer;  life — the  pleasant  and  placid 
pattern  of  Wetherby  Kidge — was  coming  inexor 
ably  nearer ;  life  with  melted  marshmallows  float 
ing  on  its  surface ! 

* '  Oh,  Marty,  please ! ' J  She  was  fatally  calm  and 
earnest  about  it.  "I'm  so  sorry — sorrier  than  I 
can  tell  you, — but  you  mustn't  say  it!  You 
mustn't  make  me  answer  you." 

17 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


He  was  bnsily  getting  both  her  cool  hands  into 
the  hot  grasp  of  one  of  his  own,  and  the  fingers  of 
his  other  hand,  a  little  moist,  were  forcing  them 
selves  beneath  her  chin,  but  there  was  something 
in  the  honest  sorriness  of  her  tone  which  made  him 
pause  even  in  that  triumphant  and  satisfying  mo 
ment.  "Why!  You  little " 

"Because,"  said  Jane,  steadily,  "I  do  like  you 
such  a  lot,  Marty  dear,  and  I  wish  you  wouldn't 
ask  me,  and  make  me  tell  you  that  I  don't — I 
can't " 

Then  with  a  swift  and  amazing  sense  of  rescue, 
of  sanctuary,  she  heard  herself  saying,  "Besides, 
you  see,  I'm  going  away  I" 


CHAPTER  II 

WHILE  Jane's  astounding  utterance 
seemed  to  float  and  echo  on  the 
November  night  air,  Sarah  Farraday 
let  herself  as  stealthily  out  of  her  front  door  as 
she  had  let  herself  in,  and  came  softly  down  the 
steps.  "I  didn't  wake  mother,"  she  said  in  a 
whisper.  She  was  in  sober,  every-day  serge  now, 
and  pulling  on  her  second-best  cloak.  She  car 
ried  a  small  bag  and  was  faintly  pink  with  her 
haste.  There  was  apprehension  in  the  look  she 
gave  her  friend.  "Wasn't  I  quick,  Jane?"  She 
had  left  them  alone  to  give  Martin  Wetherby  his 
chance,  but  ancient  girl  loyalty  had  winged  her 
heels. 

"Yes,"  said  Jane,  slipping  her  hand  through 
Sarah 's  arm.  ' '  Sally,  I  've  just  been  telling  Marty 
that  I'm  going  away  for  a  while." 

"Jane  Vail!  Going  away?  What  for? 
Where?"  She  stood  still  on  the  sidewalk,  explod 
ing  into  tiny,  staccato  sentences. 

"To  New  York,"  Jane  heard  herself  saying 

19 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


with   entire    conviction.     "I'm   going   away   to 
work. ' ' 

"To  work?"  They  were  all  in  the  "brightness 
of  the  street  light  now,  and  Sarah  brought  her 
nearsighted  gaze  close  to  Jane's  glowing  face. 
"Have  you  lost  your  senses?" 

"Neither  my  senses  nor  my  cosy  little  hundred- 
a-month,"  said  Jane.  "Come  along,  people, — 
it's  a  scandalous  hour."  She  started  briskly  up 
the  silent  thoroughfare  and  the  others  followed. 
"No,  it's  really  all  quite  sane  and  simple."  (The 
astounding  thing  was  that  she  had  known  it  less 
than  five  minutes  herself,  and  now  it  was  a  solid 
and  settled  fact  to  her.  Happily,  gloriously,  she 
didn't  have  to  choose,  after  all.  She  didn't  have 
to  be  either  a  Nannie  Slade  Hunter  or  a  Sally 
Farraday;  there  was  a  chance  to  be  something 
quite  fresh  and  new.)  "I'm  going  to  New  York 
to  write.  I  mean,  to  see  if  I  can  write." 

Martin  Wetherby,  heavily  keeping  step  beside 
her,  not  even  touching  her  arm  at  crossings,  was 
silent,  but  her  best  friend  was  vocal  and  vehement. 

"Jane  Vail!  I  never  heard  anything  so — so 
far-fetched  in  all  my  life!  Going  to  New  York 
to  write !  Can't  you  write  here  in  your  own  town, 
in  your  own  home?  Of  course  you  can.  Why, — 
see  what  you've  accomplished  already." 

20 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


"I  haven't  accomplished  anything,  old  dear,  ex 
cept  a  few  papers  for  the  Tuesday  Club  and  the 
Ladies'  Aid,  and " 

"You've  had  three  stories  accepted  and  pub 
lished  and  one  of  them  paid  for, — I  think  you've 
had  a  great  deal  of  encouragement,  don't  you, 
Martin?" 

The  stout  young  man  made  a  husky  assent. 

"But  Sally,  you  don't  realize  the  interrup 
tions,  the  distractions " 

"Interruptions!  Distractions!"  Sarah  cut  in 
hotly.  "Why,  your  Aunt  Lydia  is  perfectly  won 
derful  about  not  letting  you  be  disturbed!  And 
anyhow — what  about  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe,  writ 
ing  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  with  poverty  and  sickness 
and  a  debilitating  climate  and  seven  children?" 

"My  good  woman,"  said,  Jane,  cautiously,  "it's 
entirely  possible  that  I  may  not  have  exactly  the 
same  urge.  I  want  to  find  out  if  I  have  any  at  all. ' ' 
She  slipped  an  arm  through  Sarah's  and  through 
Martin's  and  gave  each  of  them  a  gay  little 
squeeze.  "Don't  be  so  horrified,  old  dears.  It 
isn't  across  the  world,  you  know,  and  I'll  be  com 
ing  home  for  all  high-days  and  holidays.  After  I 
really  get  started  I  daresay  I  can  work  at  home, — 
and  perhaps,  you  know,  it  will  be  Bo-Peep  herself 
who  comes  home,  bringing  her  tales  behind  her!" 

21 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


But  Sarah  Farraday  was  still  protesting  in  a 
cross  panic  when  they  had  taken  leave  of  a  sub 
dued  Martin  and  were  creeping  upstairs  in  Miss 
Lydia  Vail's  house. 

'  *  Look ! ' '  said  Jane,  nodding  at  the  transom  over 
her  aunt 's  door.  * '  She 's  fallen  asleep  again  with 
out  turning  off  her  light.  You  go  on,  Sally,  I'll 
be  right  in." 

Miss  Lydia  was  propped  up  on  two  pillows,  an 
open  book  before  her  on  the  patchwork  quilt,  and 
her  head  had  sagged  forward  on  the  breast  of  her 
blue  flannelette  nightgown.  She  was  making  a 
low  comedy  sound  which  would  have  distressed 
her  beyond  measure  if  she  had  heard  it.  When 
Jane  took  the  book  from  under  her  plump  hands 
and  gently  removed  one  of  the  pillows  she  came 
back  to  consciousness  with  a  jerk. 

"I  wasn't  asleep, "  she  stated  with  dignity. 
"Not  really  asleep;  I  just  closed  my  eyes  to  rest 
them  and  sort  of  lost  myself  for  an  instant. "  Her 
eyes  narrowed  intently.  "My  dear,  what  is  it? 
You  look — you  look  queer!  Sort  of — excited!" 
A  quick,  pink  blush  mounted  over  her  face. 
"Jane!  Oh,  my  darling  child — is  it — has  Mar 
tin" — then,  disappointedly,  as  the  girl  shook  her 
head, — "Is  it  just  that  you've  been  having  a  won 
derful  time?" 

22 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


"It's  just  that  I've  been  having  a  wonderful 
idea,  Aunt  Lyddy!"  She  patted  the  pillow.  "Ill 
tell  you  to-morrow !" 

"What,  Jane?  What  is  it?  I  sha'n't  sleep  a 
wink  if  you  don't  tell  me ! " 

"I'm  going  away  for  a  while,  Aunt  Lyddy,  dear, 
— to  New  York.  I  want  to  see  if  I  can  really  do 
something  with  my  writing." 

The  little  spinster  paled.  "Jane!  Going 
aivay?"  Her  eyes  brimmed  up  with  sudden  tears. 
"My  dearest  girl,  aren't  you  happy  in  your  home? 
I've  tried,  oh,  how  IVe  tried  to  take  your  dear, 
dead  mother's  place!  But  it  seems " 

"Of  course  I'm  happy, — I've  always  been 
happy,  Aunt  Lyddy!  Now,  we'll  wait  till  morn 
ing  and  then  talk  it  all  over."  She  pulled  up  the 
gay  quilt  smoothly,  but  her  aunt  sat  stiffly  upright, 
her  face  twisted  with  alarm. 

' '  My  dear  child !    What  is  it  ?  " 

Jane  stood  looking  down  at  her  for  an  instant 
before  she  stooped  and  gathered  her  into  a  hearty 
hug.  "It's  nothing  to  be  frightened  about.  It's 
just  this,  Aunt  Lyddy;  I  do  want  to  write,  and  I 
don't  want  to  marry  Martin  Wetherby!" 

In  the  difficult  days  which  followed  she  found 
Sarah  Farraday  the  most  rebellious.  Miss 

23 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


had  a  little  creed  or  philosophy  which  was  as 
plump  and  comfortable  as  she  was  herself,  and 
which  had  helped  to  make  her,  Jane  considered, 
the  world's  most  satisfactory  maiden  aunt,  and 
after  a  few  tears  and  those  briskly  winked  away, 
she  was  able  to  be  sure  that  her  dear  girl  knew 
best  what  was  best  for  herself,  much  as  she  would 
miss  her,  empty  as  the  house  would  be  without  her. 
Nannie  Slade  Hunter,  though  she  disapproved, 
was  too  deeply  engulfed  in  the  real  business  of 
life  to  be  much  concerned  over  the  vagaries  of  a 
just-about-to-be-engaged  girl,  and  Martin  Wether- 
by,  coached,  Jane  knew,  by  the  sapient  father  of 
the  Teddy-bear,  was  presently  able  to  translate 
her  exodus  into  something  very  soothing  to  his 
own  piece  of  mind.  Jane  could  watch  his  mental 
processes  as  easily  as  she  could  watch  the  activi 
ties  of  a  goldfish  in  a  glass  globe ;  he  was  conclud 
ing  that  it  was  the  regular  old  startled  fawn  stuff 
...  he  had  been  rushing  her  pretty  hard  .  .  . 
better  let  her  have  a  little  time  .  .  .  play  around 
with  this  writing  game.  He'd  be  Asst.  Cashier 
(that  was  the  way  he  visualized  it)  the  first  of  the 
year,  and  that  would  be  a  great  time  to  get  things 
settled. 

But  Sarah,  in  the  burlapped  studio,  between 
piano  pupils,  was  aghast  and  bitter.    "  *  Going  to 

24 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


seek  your  fortune!'  I  never  heard  anything  so 
absurd,  Jane!  You've  got  more  than  most  girls 
right  now, — a  hundred  dollars  a  month  of  your 
very  own  to  do  just  what  you  like  with,  and  when 
your  Aunt  Lydia — is  taken  from  you,  you'll  have 
that  adorable  old  house,  jammed  full  of  rosewood 
and  mahogany  and  willow  pattern  ware ! ' '  Wrath 
rose  and  throve  in  her.  "I've  sometimes — I'm 
ashamed  to  admit  it,  but  it's  the  truth — IVe  some 
times  envied  you  your  advantages,  Jane, — going 
away  to  that  wonderful  school,  and  six  months  in 
Europe  after  you  graduated — but  if  the  result  has 
been  to  make  you  dissatisfied  with  your  own  home 
and  your  own  friends" — she  was  crying  now — 
"why,  then  I'm  thankful  I've  always  stayed  here, 
and  never  known  or  wanted  anything  different!" 

Jane  crossed  over  to  her  and  put  penitent  arms 
about  her,  and  at  the  touch  Sarah  began  to  cry  in 
earnest. 

"Oh,  Jane!  I  can't  stand  it!  I  can't  have  you 
go  away!  Jane, — for  you  to  go  away " 

"Oh,  Sally  dear,"  said  Jane,  patting  her,  "it 
isn't  really  going  away, — geography  doesn't  mat 
ter!  It's  just — going  on,  Sally!  That's  it, — I'm 
just  going  on.  And  on,  I  hope!  And  I'll  write 
you  miles  of  letters." 

25 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


"Letters!"  her  friend  sniffed.  "What  are  let 
ters?" 

"Mine  are  something  rather  special,  I've  been 
told.  I'll  write  you  everything,  Sally, — letters 
like  diaries,  letters  like  stories,  letters  like  books. 
Think  of  all  the  marvelous  things  I'll  have  to  write 
about !  Why,  Kodney  Harrison  thinks  my  letters 
from  Wetherby  Eidge,  with  nothing " 

Sarah  Farraday  jerked  away  from  her,  her 
cheeks  suddenly  hot,  her  eyes  accusing.  "So, 
that's  it!  That's  the  reason!  It's  the  man  you 
met  on  the  boat!"  She  said  it  with  hyphens — 
"  The-man-you-met-on-the-boat ! "  She  knew  his 
name  quite  well,  but  she  always  spoke  of  him  thus 
descriptively ;  it  was  her  little  way  of  keeping  him 
in  his  place,  which  was  well  outside  of  the  sacred 
circle  of  Wetherby  Eidge. 

Jane  laughed.  "Goose!  Of  course,  he's  part 
of  the  picture,  and  a  very  pleasant  part,  and  it 
will  be  very  nice  to  have  him  meet  me  and  drive 
me  opulently  to  Hetty  Hills'  sedate  boarding- 
house.  Aunt  Lyddy  is  so  rejoiced  to  have  me 
there  with  some  one  from  the  village  that  I 
couldn't  refuse,  but  I  suspect  it  will  be  a  section 
of  the  Old  People's  Home." 

< '  Poor  Marty ! ' '  said  Sarah.    '  <  Poor  old  Marty ! 

After  all  his  years  of  devotion " 

26 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


"But  don't  yon  think  he  got  large  chnnks  of 
enjoyment  ont  of  them?"  Her  best  friend's  ear 
nestness  made  her  flippant,  and  it  was  a  curious 
fact  that  good  old  Sally,  a  predestinate  spinster 
herself,  settled  on  her  moated  grange  of  music 
teaching,  always  took  a  most  militant  part  in 
other  people 's  love  affairs.  In  every  lovers '  quar 
rel  in  the  village,  in  the  rare  divorces,  she  had 
stood  fiercely,  hot  dabs  of  color  on  her  cheekbones, 
for  the  swain  or  the  husband.  "I  still  contend, " 
she  would  say,  "that  with  all  his  faults,  and  I'm 
not  denying  that  he  has  faults,  a  different  sort  of 
a  woman  could  have  saved  him  and  made  some 
thing  of  him!" 

Sarah  came  to  stay  the  night  with  her  before 
she  was  to  leave  in  the  morning,  and  cried  herself 
to  sleep  with  a  thin  drizzle  of  tears  which  Jane 
found  at  once  flattering  and  touching  and  irri 
tating,  and  when  at  last  the  weeper  was  drawing 
long  and  peaceful  breaths  she  slipped  out  of  bed 
and  flung  on  her  orange-colored  kimono  and  knelt 
down  before  the  open  window,  her  shining  hair, 
so  darkly  brown  that  it  was  almost  black,  hang 
ing  gypsylike  about  her  shoulders.  (The  greater 
portion  of  Sarah's  hair  was  at  rest  upon  the 
rosewood  bureau  top,  coiled  like  a  pale  snake,  and 

2Z 


JANE    JOURNEYS   ON 


the  remainder  was  done  up  on  curlers  in  Topsy 
twists.) 

Over  in  the  east  there  was  the  first  graying  ad 
vance  of  the  dawn.  (There  had  been  a  "little 
gathering  of  the  young  folks"  and  then  Jane  had 
finished  packing  and  they  had  talked  for  two 
hours.)  Jane  felt  a  little  guilty,  and  a  little  fool 
ish — leaping  thus  into  the  village  spotlight,  sally 
ing  forth  into  the  wide  world — and  a  little  gay 
and  thrilled.  The  morning  was  coming  steadily 
up  the  sky;  the  daily  miracle  was  going  on.  And 
she  was  going  on — on!  Old  Sally's  scoldings 
didn't  matter,  nor  Marty's  smug  confidence.  She 
shivered  a  little  but  kept  her  eyes  on  the  growing 
glory.  She  was — going — on! 

A  week  later  Sarah  Farraday  tore  open  the  first 
letter  with  the  New  York  postmark. 

SALLY  DEAR,  the  typed  page  began,  I  meant  to 
write  at  once,  but  I've  been  settling  down  so  bus 
ily!  Of  course  Aunt  Lyddy  telephoned  you  of  my 
safe  arrival?— Safe,  my  dear!— It  was  positively 
regal.  Visiting  royalty  effect.  Eodney  Harrison 
met  me  and  I  find  I  had  quite  forgotten  how  very 
easy  to  look  at  he  is !  He  apologized  for  the  taxi 
which  seemed  most  opulent  to  me,  because  his  own 
speedster  was  in  the  shop,  he  having  "  broken  a 
record  and  some  vital  organ  the  night  before,  and 

28 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


the  mater  was  using  the  limousine  and  the  gover 
nor  was  out  of  town  with  the  big  bus. ' '  His  pretty 
plan  was  for  dinner  and  the  theater  and  then  sup 
per  and  some  dancing,  but  I  thought  there  was 
just  the  least  bit  of  the  King  and  the  Beggar  Maid 
lavishness  about  that,  so  I  discreetly  revised  it  to 
tea. 

We  purred  extravagantly  up  the  Avenue,  and 
how  horrified  Aunt  Lyddy  would  be  at  the  taxi 
meter  !  It  makes  me  think  of  when  we  used  to  play 
Hide-and-Seek,  "  Twenty- five,  thirty,  thirty- five, 
forty,  forty-five,  fifty — ready  or  not  you  shall  be 
caught!"1 

He  had  brought  me  a  corsage  of  orchids  and 
lilies-of-the-valley,  and  I  had  to  wear  it  at  tea — 
and  the  price  of  that  tea,  my  dear,  would  feed  a 
first  family  in  Wetherby  Eidge  for  a  day! — and 
when  I  came  up  here  to  my  room  I  found  three 
dozen  red  roses  with  stems  like  stilts  and  a  three- 
story  red  satin  box  of  chocolates.  Hardly  a  thrifty 
person,  this  man-I-met-on-the-boat,  as  you  persist 
in  calling  him,  Sally,  but  the  last  word  in  Eeception 
Committees !  Just  as  I  had  forgotten  his  charms, 
so  he  seemed  to  have  mislaid  the  memory  of  mine, 
and  we  really  made  a  very  pleasant  fuss  over  each 
other.  Eodney  had  several  bright  and  beamish 
ideas  for  the  next  few  days,  but  I  reminded  him 
that  while  he  may  be  an  Idle  Eich,  I'm  a  Laboring 
Class,  and  I  frugally  accepted  one  invitation  out 
of  four.  "A  Country  Mouse  came  to  visit  a  Town 

29 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Mouse — "     But  I  can  clearly  see  that  he  will 
greatly  add  to  the  livableness  of  life. 

I  have  bought  myself  a  second-hand,  elderly, 
but  still  spry  think-mobile  with  only  a  slight  in 
clination  to  stutter,  and  a  pompous-looking  eraser 
with  a  little  fringe  of  black  whiskers  on  its  chin, 
and  I'm  beginning  to  begin,  Sally,  dear! 

It's  going  to  be  a  marvelous  place  to  work.  Nice 
old  Hetty  Hills  keeps  a  really  super-boarding 
house,  and  the  personnel  isn't  going  to  be  in  the 
least  distracting, — staid,  concert-going  ladies, 
some  teachers,  a  musician  or  two,  a  middle-aged 
bank  clerk;  only  two  other  youngish  people,  both 
Settlement  workers,  a  man  and  a  woman.  Her 
name  is  Emma  Ellis  and  she's  only  about  thirty, 
but  she  acts  fifty — you  know — shabby  hair  and 
dim  fingernails  and  a  righteously  shining  nose, — 
and  I  wish  you  could  see  her  hat!  It  looks  ex 
actly  like  the  lid  to  something.  She  doesn't  like 
me  at  all,  though  I've  been  virtuously  nice  to  her. 
The  man  is  a  big,  lean  Irishman,  named  Michael 
Daragh.  Don't  you  like  the  sound  of  that,  Sally? 
It  makes  me  think  of  those  Yeats  and  Synge  things 
I  was  reading  up  on  just  before  I  left  home.  He 's 
like  a  person  in  a  book, — very  tall  and  very  thin 
and  yet  he  seems  like  a  perfect  tower  of  strength, 
some  way.  His  hair  is  ash  blond  and  his  eyes  are 
gray  and  look  straight  through  you  and  for  miles 
beyond  you,  and  he  has  splashes  of  good  color  in 
his  thin,  clear  cheeks.  He  has  a  quaint,  long, 
Irish,  upper  lip.  I'd  describe  him  as  a  large  body 

30 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


of  man  entirely  surrounded  by  conscience.  (I'm 
describing  him  so  fully  to  you  because  it's  such 
good  practice  for  me,  and  I  know  you  don't  mind.) 
His  clothes  are  old,  but  not  so  much  shabby  as 
mellow,  like  old,  good  leather.  And  such  a  brogue, 
Sally !  It  could  be  eaten  with  a  spoon !  He  asked 
me  at  once  what  I  meant  to  do  (he  can't  conceive, 
of  course,  that  one  isn't  a  do-er !),  and  when  I  said 
that  I  meant  to  write,  at  least,  to  try,  he  said : 

"  'Tis  the  great  gift,  surely.  When  our  like" 
— he  looked  at  Emma  Ellis — "are  toiling  with  our 
two  hands  and  wishing  they  were  twenty,  yourself 
can  reach  the  wide  world  over  with  your  pen." 
Miss  Ellis  didn't  seem  especially  impressed  with1 
his  figure,  but  he  nodded  gravely  and  went  on. 
"  'Tis  a  true  word.  You  can  span  the  aching 
world  with  a  clean  and  healing  pen."  (Isn't  that 
delicious,  Sally?)  I  tried  to  explain  that  I  was 
just  starting,  that  I  was  afraid  I  hadn't  anything 
of  especial  importance  to  say,  and  then  he  said, 
very  sternly — and  he  has  the  eyes  of  a  zealot  and 
a  fighter's  jaw — "Let  you  be  stepping  over  to  the 
tenements  with  me  and  I'll  show  you  tales  you'll 
dip  your  pen  in  tears  and  blood  to  tell!" 

He's  going  to  be  enormously  interesting  to 
study. — There — I've  just  this  instant  placed  the 
resemblance  that's  been  teasing  me !  He's  like  the 
St.  Michael  in  my  favorite  Botticelli,  the  one  of 
Tobias  led  by  the  archangels,  carrying  the  fish  to 
heal  his  father,  Tobit,  you  know, — there's  a  tiny 
copy  of  it  in  my  room  at  home.  Next  time  you  stop 

31 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


by  to  see  Aunt  Lyddy  (you're  a  lamb  to  do  it  so 
often!)  run  up  and  look  at  it.  I  loved  it  better 
than  any  other  picture  in  Florence ;  you  can 't  get 
the  lovely  old  tones  from  the  little  brown  copy,  but 
everything  else  is  there — Tobias,  carrying  his  fish 
in  the  funny  little  strap  and  handle,  utter  trust 
on  his  lifted  face,  the  wonderful  lines  of  drapery, 
the  swaying  lily,  the  absurd  little  dog  with  his  tas- 
seled  tail  (I  wonder  if  he  was  Botticelli's  dog?) 
and  at  the  side,  guarding  and  guiding,  with  sword 
and  symbol,  stern  St.  Michael  Captain-General  of 
the  Hosts  of  Heaven.  This  Michael  Daragh  is 
really  like  him,  name  and  all.  Isn't  it  curious? 

Write  me  soon  and  much,  old  dear.    My  best  to 
every  one,  and  I  sent  the  Teddy-bear  a  bib  from 
the  proudest  baby-shop  on  the  avenue. 
Devotedly, 

JAFE. 

P.S.  You  might  ring  up  Aunt  Lyddy  and  ask 
her  to  send  me  that  little  Botticelli  picture — my 
bare  walls  are  rather  bleak. 


CHAPTER  III 

JANE  settled  jubilantly  into  the  new  life, — a 
brisk  walk  after  breakfast,  up  the  gay  Ave 
nue  or  down  the  gray  streets  below  the 
Square,  then  three  honest  hours  at  the  elderly 
typewriter,  writing  at  top  speed  .  .  .  tearing  up 
all  she  had  written  .  .  .  writing  slowly,  polish 
ing  a  paragraph  with  passionate  care,  salvaging 
perhaps  a  page,  perhaps  a  sentence  out  of  the 
morning's  toil.  Then  she  hooded  her  machine, 
lunched,  and  gave  herself  up  to  an  afternoon  of 
vivid  living, — a  Eussian  pianist,  or  an  exhibition 
of  vehemently  modern  pictures  screaming  their 
message  from  quiet  walls  in  a  Fifth  Avenue  Gal 
lery,  an  hour  at  Hope  House  Settlement  with 
Emma  Ellis  or  Michael  Daragh,  tea  and  dancing 
with  Kodney  Harrison,  or  dinner  and  a  play  with 
him,  or  a  little  session  of  snug  coziness  with  Mrs. 
Hetty  Hills,  giving  the  exile  news  of  the  Vermont 
village, — nothing  was  dull  or  dutiful ;  the  prosiest 
matters  of  every  day  were  lined  with  rose,  She 

33 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


dramatized  every  waking  moment.    She  was  go 
ing  to  work,  she  wrote  Sarah. 

I  have  been  just  marking  time  before,  bnt  now 
I'm  marching,  Sally.  I  was  up  at  six-thirty,  had 
a  cold  dip  and  a  laborer's  breakfast, — I'm  afraid 
I  haven't  any  temperament  in  my  appetite,  you 
know — and  sped  off  for  atmosphere  and  ozone, 
far  below  the  Square,  on  a  two-mile  tramp,  and 
now  I'm  about  to  write.  Rodney  Harrison,  who 
knows  everybody  who  is  anybody,  has  introduced 
me  to  some  vaudeville-powers-that-be  and  I  am  en 
couraged  to  try  my  hand  at  what  they  call  a  sketch 
— a  one-act  play.  It  seems  that  they  are  in  need 
of  something  a  little  less  thin  than  the  usual  ar 
ticle  they've  been  serving  up  to  their  patrons, — 
more  of  a  playlet ;  something,  I  suppose,  to  edify 
the  wife  of  the  Tired  Business  Man  after  he  has 
enjoyed  the  Tramp  Juggler  and  the  Trained  Seals. 
Rodney  Harrison  has  helped  me  no  end, — trotted 
me  about  to  all  the  best  places  and  helped  me  to 
study  and  learn  from  them,  and  now  I'm  ready 
to  begin. 

And — heavens — how  I  adore  it,  Sally! 

It's  breaking  my  iron  schedule  to  write  a  letter 
in  business  hours  but  I  knew  you'd  love  to  picture 
me  here,  gleefully  clicking  off  dollars  and  fame. 
Poor  lamb!  I  wish  you  were  on  a  job  like  this, 
instead  of  pegging  away  at  your  piano.  I  wish 
there  could  be  as  much  fun  in  your  work  as  mine. 
Of  course,  music  is  the  most  marvelous  thing  in 

34 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


the  world,  but  isn't  there  something  of  deadly 
monotony  in  it? 
But  I  fly  to  my  toil! 

Busily, 

JANE. 

January  Ninth,  8.30  A.M. 

It  is  just  one  week  since  I  wrote  you.  I  rend 
my  garments,  Sarah  Farraday,  and  sit  in  the  dust. 
That  fatuous  note  I  sent  you  was  a  thin  crust  of 
bluff  over  an  abyss  of  fright.  Who  am  I  to  write 
a  one-act  play?  I  have  sat  here  for  eight  solid 
horrible  days  with  a  fine  fat  box  of  extra  quality 
paper  untouched  and  the  keyboard  leering  at  me, 
and  not  a  line,  not  a  word,  have  I  written!  The 
hideous  period  of  beginning  to  begin !  I  imagine 
it's  like  the  tense  moment  in  a  football  game,  just 
before  the  kickoff,  only  those  lucky  youths  are 
pushed  and  prodded,into  action,  willynilly.  If  only 
a  whistle  would  blow  or  a  pistol  crack  for  me  I 

I  have  come  to  realize  that  the  most  dangerous 
thing  for  a  writer  to  have  is  uninterrupted  leisure. 
Now  I  know  how  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe  could 
write  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin  with  poverty  and  sick 
ness  and  a  debilitating  climate  and  seven  chil 
dren.  So  could  I.  It's  the  awful  quiet  of  this  or 
derly  room,  the  jeering  taunt  of  Washington 
Square,  looking  in  at  my  window  to  say,  "What! 
here  you  are  in  my  throbbing,  thrilling  midst  at 
last,  having  left  your  sylvan  home  because  it 
ceased  to  nourish  you, — and  you  have  nothing  to 
say?" 

35 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


I've  simulated  a  mad  business.  I've  answered 
every  letter — some  that  I've  owed  for  years;  IVe 
put  my  bureau  and  chiffonier  and  closet  in  sicken 
ing  order;  IVe  mended  every  scrap  of  clothing  I 
possess,  reinforced  all  my  buttons  and  run  in  miles 
of  ribbon;  IVe  visited  the  sick  and  even  been  to 
the  dentist.  I  really  ought  to  die  just  before  I 
start  a  new  piece  of  work.  At  no  other  time  is  my 
house  of  life  in  such  shining  order. 

Sally,  didn't  I  say  something  nitwitted  about 
music?  Now,  indeed,  I  pour  ashes  on  my  head. 
Lucky  you,  who  need  only  sit  down  and  spill  out 
your  soul  in  something  thoughtfully  arranged  for 
that  very  purpose  by  Mr.  Chopin  or  Mr.  Tschai- 
kovsky!  While  I — "out  of  senseless  nothing  to 
evoke" — I  wish  I  did  something  definite  and  tan 
gible  like  plain  sewing!  If  I  don't  start  soon  I'll 
sell  this  think-mobile  for  junk  and  put  out  a  sign 
— "Mending  and  Washing  and  Going  Out  by  the 
Day  Taken  in  Here." 

Just  now  the  painted  ship  upon  the  painted 
ocean  is  a  bee-hive  of  activity  compared  to  me. 

JANE. 

Monday  Noon. 
SARAH, 

Sh-h  .     .!    I'm  off! 

J. 

Wednesday,  more  than  midnight. 
DEAREST  S. 

I'm  a  dying  woman  but  my  sketch  is  done !  IVe 
lived  on  board  the  typewriter  since  twelve  o'clock 

36 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


on  Monday,  coming  briefly  ashore  for  a  snatch  of 
food  or  sleep,  but  it's  done  and  I  adore  it!  (Says 
the  author,  modestly.)  The  heavenly  mad  haste 
of  the  actual  doing  makes  up  for  all  the  agonies 
of  the  start,  restoring  the  years  that  the  locusts 
have  eaten.  I'll  tell  you  all  about  it  in  the  morn 
ing. 

Drowsily  but  triumphantly, 

JANE. 

Thursday. 

Sally,  my  dear,  I  wouldn't  thank  King  George 
to  be  my  uncle,  as  Aunt  Lyddy  would  say!  I 
never  experienced  anything  in  all  my  life  as  satis 
fying  as  pounding  out  that  word  CURTAIN  ! 

Want  to  hear  about  it?  You  must, — you  can't 
elude  me. 

Well,  I  Ve  called  it '  '  ONE  CROWDED  HOUR.  ' '  The 
scene  is  a  lonely  telegraph  station  on  the  desert 
and  the  time  is  the  present.  The  characters  are : 
THE  GIRL — THE  BROTHER — THE  MAN. 

The  setting  shows  the  front  room  of  the  tele 
graph  station  crude  and  rough  and  bare,  just  the 
ticker  on  the  table,  another  table  and  three  chairs, 
yet  there  is  a  pathetic  attempt  at  softening  the 
ugliness, — a  bunch  of  dried  grasses,  magazine  cov 
ers  pinned  to  the  wall,  gay  cushions  in  the  chairs, 
a  work  basket,  books. 

At  rise  of  curtain  GIRL  is  discovered  alone,  sew 
ing.  She  is  faintly,  quaintly  pretty  in  a  mild  New 
England  way,  no  longer  young,  yet  with  a  pathetic, 

37 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


persistent  girlishness  about  her.  A  faint  whistle 
is  heard.  She  rises,  goes  to  door  of  rear  room 
and  calls  to  BKOTHEB  that  the  train  has  whistled 
for  the  bend.  The  two  trains — east-bound  and 
west-bound — are  the  events  of  their  silent  and 
solitary  days.  She  brings  him  from  rear  room, 
her  arm  about  him,  steadying  him.  He  is  younger 
than  his  sister,  frail,  despondent.  She  seats  him 
at  the  instrument  and  brings  him  a  cup  of  hot 
broth,  standing  over  him  until  he  drinks  it  up. 

The  necessary  exposition  comes  in  brief  dia 
logue:  he  has  been  sent  west  for  his  cough,  has 
become  so  weak  he  is  unable  to  do  his  work,  has 
taught  her,  and  she  in  reality  carries  on  all  the 
affairs  of  the  lonely  station.  He  stays  in  bed  most 
of  the  time,  only  dragging  himself  up  at  train 
time,  so  that  the  trainmen  will  not  suspect  their 
secret. 

The  noise  of  the  approaching  limited  grows 
louder  and  louder  until  it  arrives  with  loud  clamor 
just  off  stage.  GIRL  runs  out  with  the  orders  and 
the  train  is  heard  pulling  out  again.  She  comes 
in  and  is  about  to  help  him  back  to  bed  when  the 
instrument  begins  to  click  and  instantly  they  are 
electrified. 

"THE  HAWK,"  a  daring  hold-up  man  who  has 
baffled  justice  for  a  year,  has  just  made  off  with 
the  Bar  K  Eanch  paysack  and  posses  are  forming, 
but  the  new  sheriff  has  sworn  to  take  him  single- 
handed.  BROTHER  excitedly  asserts  that  the  sheriff 
can  do  it, — a  regular  fellow,  that  new  sheriff, — 

38 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


looks  and  acts  just  like  a  man  in  a  movie!  He 
regrets  that  his  sister  was  not  at  home  the  day 
he  came  to  see  them— the  one  time  she'd  left  the 
station  for  more  than  an  hour.  She'd  have  liked 
him  fine!  They  excitedly  discuss  the  chances  of 
the  bandit's  coming  their  way,  for  just  beyond 
their  station  is  the  famous  Pass  through  the  moun 
tains,  through  which  so  many  rogues  have  ridden 
to  freedom.  In  feverish  haste  BROTHER  gets  out 
his  clumsy  pistol  and  loads  it,  to  her  timid  distress. 
Their  drab  day  has  turned  to  scarlet;  he  talks 
glowingly  of  the  new  sheriff,  envies  him.  .  .  .  In 
strument  clicks  again.  It  is  the  sheriff,  asking  if 
they  have  seen  a  solitary  horseman,  and  saying 
that  he  is  on  his  way  there,  to  watch  the  Pass. 

BROTHER  gets  himself  so  wrought  up  that  he 
brings  on  a  fit  of  coughing  and  she  makes  him  go 
back  to  bed. 

Left  alone  again  in  the  front  room,  she  tries  to 
settle  down  to  her  sewing,  but  she  sings  as  she 
rocks — 

"In  days  of  old 
When  knights  were  bold, 
And  barons  held  their  sway — " 

Then,  childishly,  half  ashamed,  she  begins  to 
"pretend."  She  snatches  off  the  red  table  cover 
and  drapes  it  about  herself  for  a  train,  casts  the 
crude  furniture  for  the  roles  of  moat  and  draw 
bridge  and  castle  wall,  and  herself  for  a  captive 

39 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 

•'••'!••         I  "••'  •  ••••!  .1  !.,..•!.         . 

princess,  held  by  a  robber  chief,  flinging  herself 
into  her  fantasy  with  such  abandon  that  she  does 
not  hear  the  approaching  hoof  beats.  At  the  pin 
nacle  of  her  big  speech  the  door  is  wrenched  open 
and  THE  MAN  stands  there,  a  gun  in  each  hand, 
demanding — 

1 ' Who's  here?" 

It  fits  in  with  her  make-believe  so  amazingly  that 
for  an  instant  she  is  dazed  and  can  hardly  tell 
reality  from  romance,  but  then  she  gathers  .her 
self  and  says  with  a  little  gasp — 

"Why,  Mister  Sheriff,  we  aren't  hiding  THE 
HAWK!" 

THE  MAN,  who  is,  of  course,  the  bandit,  instantly 
catches  her  mistake  and  poses  as  the  sheriff.  She 
asks  him  eagerly  if  she  may  send  a  message  for 
him,  to  cover  up  her  confusion  as  she  takes  off  her 
table-cloth  train.  Then,  realizing  that  she  has  be 
trayed  their  secret,  she  throws  herself  on  his 
mercy  and  tells  of  her  brother's  failing  health, 
and  of  how  she  has  had  to  do  the  work  to  hold  the 
job,  and  begs  him  not  to  tell.  He  promises,  and 
then  has  her  send  several  messages  for  him  in  the 
name  of  the  sheriff,  and  from  his  expression  as 
she  is  telegraphing,  the  audience  will  infer  that  he 
has  good  and  sufficient  reason  to  know  that  the 
sheriff  will  not  arrive.  He  states  to  the  several 
ranches  where  she  wires  for  him  that  he — the 
sheriff — will  guard  the  Pass. 

BROTHER,  roused  by  voices,  comes  silently  to  the 
door.  Their  backs  are  toward  him  and  they  do 

40 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


not  see  him.  BROTHER  hears  her  call  him  ' '  Mister 
Sheriff, "  stares,  takes  in  the  situation,  his  face 
speaking  his  terror.  He  softly  pulls  the  door  to 
and  disappears. 

GIRL  and  MAN  talk.  He  is  a  gay,  dashing,  Kobin 
Hood  sort  of  chap  and  she  is  charmed.  She  asks 
him  to  step  outside  to  see  the  gallant  little  garden 
she  is  raising  in  the  desert.  They  go  out,  and  in 
stantly  BROTHER  creeps  out,  stumbles  to  table, 
waits  until  they  are  out  of  hearing,  sends  a  quick 
message.  Then  he  creeps  to  the  door  and  conveys 
by  his  mutterings  that  he  is  going  to  untie  THE 
HAWK'S  horse  and  let  him  run  away.  Apparently 
the  horse  doesn't  go,  for  he  reaches  back,  picks 
up  a  cane  and  leans  out  again.  This  time  there  is 
the  sound  of  skurrying  hoofs  and  the  horse  tears 
away.  BROTHER  staggers  back  into  the  rear  room, 
closing  the  door. 

MAN  and  GIRL  rush  in.  He  is  desperate, — the 
horse, — a  wild  and  half-broken  one,  has  made 
straight  for  the  Pass.  GIRL  wants  to  wire  for 
another  horse  to  be  brought  to  him,  but  after  a 
moment's  grim  thought,  he  decides  to  jump  on  the 
eastbound  train,  due  in  a  few  minutes,  and  go  on 
to  the  next  station,  where  he  can  get  a  good  horse. 

Then  there  is  a  pretty  scene  between  them,  when 
she  confesses  her  pity  for  THE  HAWK  and  her 
wicked  hope  that  he  may  get  away — "I  can't  bear 
to  have  even  things  hunted,  let  alone  a  man!" 

THE  MAN  is  touched,  and  tells  her  that  he  knows 
a  good  deal  about  the  bandit ;  that  he  has  had  a 

41 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


rotten  deal  straight  through  life;  that  there's  a 
streak  of  decency  in  him  for  all  the  yellow;  that 
he  'a  heard  that  THE  HAWK  meant  to  make  this  his 
last  job  ...  to  go  back  east  again  and  make  a 
fresh  start.  .  «  . 

THE  GIRL,  star-eyed  and  pink-cheeked  now,  tells 
him  of  her  home  "down  east,"  of  how  keen  she 
was  to  come  to  the  wild,  wonderful  west,  of  how 
she  thinks  that  "one  crowded  hour  of  glorious 
life"  is  worth  a  whole  leaden  existence.  That  re 
minds  her  of  her  graduating  essay,  which  she  digs 
out  of  the  trunk,  tied  with  baby-blue  ribbon.  ' '  One 
Crowded  Hour"  was  her  burning  topic,  but  her 
hours  and  days  and  years  have  been  crowded  only 
with  homely  toil  and  poverty  and  worries. 

THE  MAN,  softened  incredibly,  tells  her  she  is 
the  gentlest  thing  he  ever  knew.  .  .  .  He  takes 
the  blue  ribbon  and  says  he's  going  to  keep  it  for 
luck.  There  is  a  beautiful,  wordless  moment  for 
her,  touched  by  magic  into  girlhood  again.  , 

Then — shouts,  galloping  hoofs,  shots!  THE 
MAN  springs  to  his  feet,  hands  on  his  guns. 

BROTHER,  at  door  of  rear  room,  his  old  pistol 
describing  wavering  circles  in  his  shaking  hand, 
cries  hoarsely, 

"Harriet  Mary,  you  come  here  to  me!  That's 
not  the  sheriff !  That 's  THE  HAWK  ! ' ' 

THE  MAN,  with  a  gentle  word  to  her,  tells  her  to 
stand  aside.  .  .  .  "They'll  never  put  THE  HAWK 
in  a  cage!" 

42 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


THE  GIRL,  after  a  dazed  moment,  turns  to  a  veri 
table  fury  of  resolution.  The  east-bound  train 
whistles.  There  is  still  a  chance,  if  she  can  get 
him  on  board.  Sound  of  posse  riding  nearer.  She 
makes  MAN  hide  under  the  curtain  where  her 
dresses  hang. 

BROTHER  starts  toward  the  front  door  but  she 
seizes  him  roughly,  pushing  him  back  toward  the 
bedroom. 

" Listen, "  he  gasps,  "Harriet  Mary — that's 
THE  HAWK!" 

"I  don't  care!  I  don't  care!  I  don't  caret 
You  hush !  You  keep  still ! ' '  She  pushes  him  into 
the  room  so  violently  that  he  falls,  coughing  ter 
ribly,  to  the  floor.  A  look  of  fleeting  horror 
crosses  her  face  but  she  bangs  and  bolts  the  door. 
She  draws  the  curtain  more  carefully  over  THE 
MAN-,  flings  open  the  front  door  and  calls  above 
the  clamor  of  the  on-coming  train — 

"He's  gone!  Gone!  We  tried  to  keep  him — 
quick — through  the  Pass !  Don't  you  see  the  hoof- 
prints?" 

The  posse  wheels  and  thunders  away.  The  train 
roars  in.  THE  MAN,  coming  out  from  under  the 
curtain,  snatches  up  her  thin  hand,  kisses  it,  dashes 
out.  She  forces  herself  to  take  the  message  out 
to  the  trainmen.  She  comes  back,  stands  in 
strained  and  breathless  listening.  .  .  .  The  train 
pulls  noisily  out. 

Little  by  little  her  tension  relaxes.  The  magic 
robe  of  youth,  renewed,  falls  from  her  thin  shoul- 

43 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


ders.  At  a  sound  from  the  inner  room  she  gasps, 
clutches  her  hands  together  on  her  breast,  her  eyes 
wide  with  terror  and  remorse,  starts  running  to 
her  brother. 

CURTAIN  ! 

Can  you  see  it,  Sally?  Do  you  think  it  will  "get 
across!"  Will  I  be  able  to  "put  it  over"! 

Now,  convoyed  by  Eodney  Harrison,  I'm  off  to 
the  Booking  Office  with  a  'script,  enchantingly 
typed  in  black  and  scarlet,  under  my  arm  and  hope 
in  my  heart^ 

Jauntily, 

JANE, 

Later* 

P.S.  They  were  quite  wonderful  to  me,  which 
is  to  say,  they  pronounced  "not  bad"  and  will  cast 
it  at  once.  They  talk  vaguely  of  changes  and 
"gingering  it  up,"  and  "adding  a  little  pep,"  but 
say  that  can  be  done  at  rehearsals. 

I  started  to  say  I  preferred  not  to  have  any 
alterations  made,  but  I  thought  it  would  be  more 
tactful  to  wait  and  see. 

Oh,  but  the  forlorn  wretches  in  the  waiting 
room!  Some  of  them  had  been  there  for  hours 
and  when  the  proud  and  prosperous-looking  Eod 
ney  sent  in  his  name  and  we  were  taken  in  at  once 
without  waiting  for  our  turn  and  they  looked  at 
me  with  their  mournful  made-up  eyes  I  felt  as  if 
my  wicked  French  heels  were  on  their  necks.  I 
noticed  one  girl,  particularly ;  there  was  something 

44 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


so  gallant  about  her  cracked  and  polished  shoes, 
her  mended  gloves,  her  collar,  laundered  to  a  cob 
web  thinness,  and  about  the  improbable  sea-shell 
pink  in  her  hollow  cheeks.  She  had  a  sort  of 
eager,  sharpened  sweetness  in  her  face  and  a  regu 
lar  Burne-Jones  jaw. 

I  refused  tea  and  said  farewell  to  Eodney  up 
town  and  walked  home,  and  on  the  way  I  saw  her 
again,  standing  outside  of  one  of  the  white  and 
shining  Cafe  des  Enfants,  watching  the  man  turn 
the  muffins.  She  opened  a  collapsed  little  purse 
and  poked  about  in  it  for  an  instant  and  then  shut 
it  again  and  turned  away.  Before  I  knew  what  I 
meant  to  do,  I  heard  myself  saying,  " Hello!  I 
saw  you  just  now  at  the  Booking  Office,  didn't  I? 
I  wish  you'd  come  in  and  have  some  coffee  and 
butter  cakes, — I  detest  eating  alone!" 

She  hung  back  a  bit  but  they  are  not  formal  in 
her  world,  and  in  we  went.  Sally,  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  that  poor  thing  eat!  She's  been  sick 
and  out  of  work  and  fearfully  depressed.  I've 
got  her  name  and  address  and  if  all  goes  as  well 
with  this  vaudeville  work  as  Rodney  thinks  it  will, 
I  may  be  able  to  help  her.  At  any  rate,  she's 
stuffed  like  a  Christmas  turkey  at  this  moment. 

Sally,  I  can't  tell  you  how  happy  I  am! 
Much  love,  old  dear, 

JANE. 

P.S.  II.  I  read  the  act  to  Michael  Daragh  and 
he  set  the  seal  of  his  sober  approval  on  it.  He 
thinks  I'm  going  personally  to  uplift  the  two-a- 
day. 


CHAPTER  IV 

Friday. 
DEAREST  SALLY  : 

It  just  happened  that  they  need  a  new  sketch 
act,  so  they  cast  "ONE  CROWDED  HOUR"  at  once 
and  it  is  already  in  rehearsal. 

BROTHER  is  excellent,  a  wistful-eyed,  shabby 
youth  who  really  looks  convincingly  ill  and  coughs 
in  a  way  to  carry  conviction.  Oh,  but  THE  GIRL! 
My  quaint  New  England  spinster  is  gone  and  with 
her  all  the  point  of  my  playlet.  They've  given  the 
part  to  a  blooming,  buxom,  down-to-the-minute 
young  person,  late  of  "Oh,  You  Kewpie-Kid ! ' ' 
(in  the  chorus)  and  frankly  contemptuous  of  this 
role.  And  THE  MAN — the  bandit — a  fair-haired 
canary,  an  inch  shorter  than  she  is !  They  quarrel 
like  fishwives  and  scold  about  the  number  of 
"  sides "  each  other  has,  and  refuse  to  play  up 
prettily,  and  I'm  heartsick  over  it  all,  Sally.  The 
producing  agent  says  it  would  be  utterly  impos 
sible  to  "put  it  over"  with  the  characters  as  I 
wrote  it.  He  was  fairly  mild  and  merciful  with 
me  (thanks  to  Eodney,  I  daresay)  but  unbudgably 
firm,  and  at  every  rehearsal  some  touch  of  coyness 
or  kittenishness  is  added.  As  an  elixir  of  youth, 
I  recommend  him. 

46 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


The  girl  patronizes  me  until  I  am  ready  to  fling 
myself  on  the  floor  and  squeal  with  rage.  "Lis 
ten,  girlie, "  she  cooes,  "don't  you  worry  about 
this  HP  oP  act!  You  leave  it  to  me,  hon'!  I'll 
put  the  raisin  in  it ! ' ' 

Rodney  Harrison  is  hugely  amused  at  my  woe. 
He  says  I  must  remember  that  you  can't  slip  the 
Idylls  of  the  King  in  between  the  Black-faced  Com 
edian  and  the  Elephant  Act.  I  suppose  I  must 
just  bear  it,  grinning  if  possible,  until  I  have 
won  my  footing  and  then  I  won't  allow  so  much 
as  a  comma  to  be  changed. 

BROTHER  is  a  dear.  He  opened  his  heart  and 
gave  me  a  five-act  play  of  his  own  to  read.  The 
stage  business  is  much  funnier  than  the  dialogue. 
After  a  melting  moment  he  has — "Exeunt 
Mother. ' '  The  old  lady  was  clearly  beside  herself. 
Also  me. 

Wearily, 

JANE. 

Tuesday^ 
DEAR  SALLY, 

We  open  Thursday  afternoon  at  a  weird  little 
try-out  theater  'way  downtown.  I  am  like  to  per 
ish  of  weariness  and  exasperation.  GIRL  and  MAK 
have  been  fighting  like  Kilkenny  cats.  Yesterday 
she  said,  "Dearie,  God  is  my  witness,  he  uses  me 
like  I  was  the  dirt  under  his  feet!"  The  brother 
of  BROTHER,  a  lean,  clean-looking  chap,  lounges 
about  at  rehearsals  and  comforts  me  vastly  with 

47 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


his  under-the-breath  comments  on  them.  She  has 
worked  up  the  bit  before  THE  MAN  arrives,  when 
she  is  pretending,  you  remember,  into  screaming 
comedy.  She  assures  me  it  will  "knock  'em 
dead ! ' '  And  they  have  introduced  a  dance !  Yes. 
He  shows  her  "the  coyote  lope."  I'm  telling  you 
the  solemn  truth,  Sarah  Farraday.  Do  you  won 
der  that  I'm  an  old  woman  before  my  time? 

And  as  if  I  did  not  have  enough  to  annoy  me, 
Michael  Daragh  has  been  quite  superfluously  un 
pleasant  about  it.  I  wrote  you  how  much  he  liked 
it  when  I  read  the  original  'script  to  him?  Well, 
he  has  kept  talking  about  the  glorious  privilege  of 
doing  really  good  work  and  leavening  the  lump, 
and  of  how  the  public  really  wants  the  best,  only 
the  managers  haven't  faith  to  know  it,  and  when 
I  had  to  tell  him  about  the  changes, — the  comedy 
and  the  dance  and  so  on,  he  just  looked  at  me  and 
looked  at  me  as  if  I  were  a  lost  soul.  It  was  very 
tiresome. 

"Good  gracious,  Michael  Daragh,"  I  said,  "you 
don't  suppose  I  like  it,  do  you?  But  I've  got  to 
get  my  foothold.  You  can't  be  high-brow  in  the 
two-a-day,  it  seems.  You've  got  to  capitulate. 
It's  simply  what  they  call  'putting  it  over.' 

And  he  said,  "I  should  be  calling  it  'putting  it 
under,'  "  and  stalked  away. 

Excuse  a  cross  letter.    So  am  I. 

J, 

P.  S.  Just  for  which,  I  won't  even  tell  him 
when  or  where  the  tryout  is  to  be. 

48 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Thursday  Night. 

Well,  my  dear,  they  say  it  went  fairly  well.  But 
it  was  absolutely  the  most  harrowing  thing  I  ever 
had  to  bear.  BROTHER  was  a  gem  but  GIRL  and 
MAN  messed  up  their  lines  and  gave  an  alien  in 
terpretation  to  everything.  How  I  hated  the  audi 
ence  for  roaring  at  her  common  comedy!  They 
howled  with  delight  when  she  pushed  BROTHER 
over,  and  the  coyote  lope  got  the  biggest  hand  of 
the  day.  I  was  behind  the  scenes,  holding  the 
'script.  Oh,  but  it's  a  grim  land  of  disillusion  back 
there !  As  she  came  off  she  gave  me  a  kindly  pat 
and  said — 

' 'Ain't  they  eatin'  it  up?  Say,  girlie,  didn't  I 
tell  you  I'd  put  the  raisin  in  it!" 

Unbelievably,  heaven  alone  knows  why,  we  are 
to  open  at  the  Palace  next  Monday.  Some  big  act 
is  canceled  owing  to  illness  and  they  have  to  have 
a  sketch.  We  play  two  more  performances  down 
town  and  then  rehearse  day  and  night  to  smooth 
over  the  rough  places.  I  ought  to  be  bubbling 
with  thankful  joy — the  Palace!  But  I'm  not.  I 
doubt  if  I  go  on  with  vaudeville  work  after  this. 
Jadedly, 

JANE. 

Friday. 
DEAR  S., 

Something  made  me  think  of  that  girl  I  fed  the 
other  day  and  I  looked  her  up.  She  was  actually 
starving  and  her  room  rent  long  overdue  and  her 
landlady  a  regular  story-book  demon,  so  I  fed 

49 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


her  up  and  brought  her  home  and  coaxed  Mrs. 
Hills  to  put  a  cot  in  my  room  for  her.  Her  Burne- 
Jones  jaw  is  sharper  than  ever  and  she  has  the 
mournfully  grateful  eyes  of  a  setter.  She 's  sleep 
ing  now  as  if  she  could  never  have  enough, — just 
thirstily  drinking  up  sleep. 

Performance  no  better  to-day.    Terrific  rehears 
ing  starts  early  to-morrow  morning. 
Hastily, 

JANE. 

Sunday  Morning. 
DEAREST  SALLY, 

Eehearsal  was  called  for  nine  sharp  yesterday. 
BROTHER  and  his  brother  were  waiting.  GIRL  and 
MAN  appeared  at  ten-ten.  She  said — 

"Dearie,  I  hate  to  tell  you,  but  I  got  bad  news 
for  you."  Then,  turning  to  him,  she  said,  com 
passionately,  "Say,  hon',  you  tell  her!  I  haven't 
got  the  heart." 

"Why,"  said  the  bandit,  regretfully,  "what  she 
means  is  this:  she's  got  a  swell  chance  to  go  on 
tour  with  'Kiss  and  Tell,'  and  she  feels  like  she 
hadn't  ought  to  turn  it  down.  It's  more  her  line 
than  this  kind  of  thing,  you  know." 

I  counted  ten  to  myself,  slowly,  and  then  I  said : 

"Very  well.  I  daresay  you  know  of  some  girl 
who  is  a  quick  study  and  can  get  up  in  the  part  by 
Monday,  with  your  help." 

She  stared  and  then  began  to  giggle.  "Say, 
girlie,  I  'm  the  limit.  Didn  't  I  tell  you  f  I  married 
the  boy ! "  At  my  gasp  she  went  on,  confidentially, 

50 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


linking  her  arm  in  mine.  'Yes,  dearie.  You  see, 
it's  like  this.  I  gotter  have  somebody,  anyhow, 
to  look  after  luggage,  and  you  know  what  this  life 
is.  A  girl's  gotter  have  protection." 

When  they  were  gone  I  turned  to  look  at 
BROTHER.  I  almost  thought  he  was  going  to  cry, 
and  he  began  to  cough,  just  as  he  does  in  the 
sketch. 

"Oh,  please,"  I  said,  "don't  keep  doing  that! 
We  aren't  rehearsing  now." 

And  he  stopped  and  said,  "That's  just  it,  Miss 
Vail.  I'm  not  rehearsing.  It's — that's  how  it  is 
with  me.  That's  why  I  knew  I  could  get  by  with 
the  part.  I  thought  if  we  got  good  bookings,  why, 
I'd  be  fixed  to  take  a  good  long  rest,  afterwards, — 
out  on  the  desert  or  up  in  the  snow.  It  isn't  bad, 
yet.  They  tell  me  I  've  got  a  great  chance. ' '  Then 
his  chin  quivered.  "That's  why  it  kind  of  hits 
me  right  where  I  live,  having  this  thing  go  on  the 
rocks." 

"It  mustn't,  "I  said.  "It  can't!  We  won't  let 
it ! '  I  knew  it  was  only  a  miracle  that  could  save 
us,  in  that  breathlessly  short  time,  but  I  have  a 
vigorous  belief  in  miracles.  "There  must  be  a 
man  and  a  girl,  somewhere " 

Then  the  lean,  silent  brother  of  BROTHER  spoke. 
"I  don't  suppose  you'd  give  me  a  whack  at  it, 
would  you?  I've  learned  every  word  of  the  whole 
'script,  watching  every  day  the  way  I  have.  I 
can  do  it.  I  can  do  it  if  you'll  let  me.  I  don't 
think  that  fellow  ever  had  your  idea  of  it.  Look, 

51 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


— the  part  where  THE  HAWK  tells  her  what  a  rot 
ten  deal  he 's  always  had,  isn  't  this  how  you  meant 
it?" — and  he  dropped  into  a  chair,  took  a  knee 
between  his  brown,  lean  hands,  looked  off  into  the 
empty  theater  for  a  moment — and  then,  Sally,  he 
read  the  lines  as  I'd  written  them.  Instantly,  I 
was  happier  than  I'd  been  since  I  tore  the  final 
page  out  of  the  typewriter,  visualizing  the  thing 
as  I  meant  it  to  be. 

"It's  yours,"  I  chortled  in  my  joy.  "You  can 
have  it  on  a  silver  salver!" 

"If  only  we  can  get  a  girl,"  BROTHER  was  wor 
rying.  "We  ought  to  get  one,  easy.  She  needn't 
be  so  much  of  a  looker." 

"And  we'll  cut  the  comedy  and  the  dance,"  I 
said,  thankfully. 

"There  must  be  a  hundred  girls  crazy  for  the 
job,  with  all  the  idle  acts  there  are  now.  All  she's 
got  to  do  is  walk  through, — it's  actress  proof,  that 
part.  If  we  could  just  get  a  girl,  not  too  young, 
kind  of  pathetic  looking " 

Then,  suddenly  and  serenely,  I  knew  what  I  was 
going  to  do.  And  I  knew  that,  sink  or  swim,  never 
again  was  I  going  to  "put  it  under. "  I  told  them 
to  wait.  I  taxied  opulently  home.  My  waif  was 
curled  up  in  my  kimono,  feeding  my  fan-tailed 
goldfish.  "Hurry  up,"  I  said,  briskly.  "You're 
holding  the  rehearsal!" 

While  she  was  scrambling,  bewilderedly,  into 
her  clothes,  I  explained  to  her  and  dug  out  the 
old  'scripts  and  carbons,  and  on  the  way  back  I 

52 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


told  her  the  story  and  gave  her  the  idea  of  how  she 
was  to  play  it.  She  hadn't  had  time  to  put  on  her 
sea-shell  tint,  but  the  hollows  in  her  cheeks  filled 
up  with  pink  excitement  as  I  talked.  When  I 
marched  in  with  her  the  men  gave  her  one  look, 
grinned,  and  heaved  gusty  sighs  of  relief.  We 
rehearsed  all  day  and  half  the  night.  We  haven't 
told  the  office  a  word  about  the  defection  of  the 
two  vaude-villains.  The  printing  is  out,  of  course, 
and  the  old  names  will  stand.  She  is  stiff  with 
fright  and  bodily  unfit  for  the  strain,  but  she's 
giving  everything  she's  got,  and  she's  delicious  in 
quality  for  the  part. 

Yours  in  weary  bliss, 

J. 

Monday.    3.15  A.M. 

Sarah,  I  feel  like  Guido  Reni  (if  it  was  Guido 
Reni)  when  he  stabbed  his  servant  to  get  the 
actual  agony  for  the  "Ecce  Homo!"  My  girl 
fainted  away  in  the  middle  of  her  big  speech  an 
hour  ago.  I  have  tucked  her  up  in  bed  after  a  rub 
and  a  cup  of  hot  milk  and  she  is  to  sleep  until 
noon.  BROTHER'S  brother  tried  pitifully,  but  he 
didn't  get  through  a  single  speech  without  prompt 
ing.  I'm  terrified!  Suppose  they  muddle  it  ut 
terly,  what  will  the  Powers  say  to  me — after  not 
telling  them  of  the  change  in  cast  ?  I  wish  I  hadn  't 
asked  Michael  Daragh  to  come  to  the  matinee.  I 
must  stop.  I  know  I  won't  sleep  a  wink,  but  I'll 
put  out  the  light  and  lie  down  and  shut  my  eyes. 

JANE. 
53 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


Monday  Midnight. 

Oh,  Sally  dearest,  I  don't  know  where  to  begin! 
I'll  make  myself  start  with  the  morning.  I  slipped 
out  before  my  starveling  was  awake,  leaving  a 
cheering  note  for  her.  I  took  the  bus  up  to  Grant's 
Tomb  and  walked  back  along  the  river  to  Seventy- 
second  Street.  It  was  the  most  marvelous  blue- 
and-gold  morning;  I  speeded  myself  to  a  glow  on 
shady  paths  or  sat  steeping  for  a  moment  in  the 
sun.  I  held  happy  converse  with  democratic 
dogs  and  reserved  and  haughty  babies  and 
dawdled,  but  even  so  I  found  myself  with  a  pan 
icky  margin  of  time  on  my  hands.  Then  I  be 
thought  myself  of  my  never-failing  remedy  for 
troublesome  thoughts  and  I  went  joyously  forth 
like  a  he-goat  on  the  mountains  and  bought  a  ruin 
ous  pair  of  proud  shoes  and  put  them  on.  I  knew 
the  gloating  over  them  would  leave  me  small  room 
for  forebodings.  You  know  how  I've  always  been. 
You  used  to  call  me  "  Goody  Two-Shoes. "  These 
are  cunningly  contrived  to  make  my  No.  4,  triple 
A,  look  like  a  2,  and  I  walked  upon  air,  narrowly 
missing  being  mown  down  by  traffic,  my  eyes  upon 
my  feet.  On  the  way  to  the  Palace  I  made  myself 
repeat  that  lovely  thing  of  Gelett  Burgess's — 

"My  feet,  they  haul  me  round  the  house; 

They  hoist  me  up  the  stairs ; 
I  only  have  to  steer  them,  and 
They  ride  me  everywheres!" 

I  purchased  an  orchestra  seat  and  inquired  care- 

54 


JANE   JOUENEYS    ON 


lessly  at  what  hour  my  sketch  (only  I  didn't  say 
it  was  my  sketch)  went  on.  I  found  we  were  sand 
wiched  in  between  the  newest  Tramp  Juggler  and 
the  Trained  Seals !  Then  I  went  behind  and  saw 
my  gallant  little  company,  made  up  and  dressed 
too  soon,  waiting  in  awful  idleness  with  strained 
smiles  and  ghastly  cheer.  I  petted  and  patted 
them  all  round  and  cast  an  agitated  eye  over  the 
set.  A  grimy  young  stagehand  made  a  minor 
change  for  me  with  a  languid,  not  unkind  con 
tempt.  "What's  the  big  idea!"  he  wanted  to 
know.  "Goner  slip  'em  some  high-brow  stuff? 
Say,  this  is  the  wrong  pew,  sister.  They  won't 
stand  for  nothing  like  that  here.  Up  in  the  Bronx, 
maybe — "  I  turned  and  basely  fled.  I  went  out 
in  front  and  found  my  place.  The  orchestra  rol 
licked  through  the  overture  and  people  poured  in 
and  ushers  slid  down  the  aisles  and  snapped  down 
the  seats.  I  studied  the  people's  faces  as  a  gladi 
ator  might  have  done  in  the  arena.  Thumbs  up? 
Thumbs  down  ?  A  row  behind  me,  across  the  aisle, 
sat  Michael  Daragh,  but  he  did  not  see  me.  Two 
petulantly  pretty  girls  in  regal  furs  sank  into 
seats  beyond  me,  and  a  white-spatted,  rosy-wat 
tled  gentleman  in  a  subduedly  elegant  waistcoat 
took  the  one  on  the  end. 

The  annunciator  flashed  A  and  a  pair  of  black 
face  comedians  "opened  the  show,"  but  they  did 
not  get  it  very  far  open  for  people  were  jamming 
in  and  elbows  were  silhouetted  against  the  light. 
They  doggedly  plugged  away,  firing  their  tragic 

55 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


comedy,  making  brave  capital  even  of  the  silences, 
but  through  my  glasses  I  was  sure  I  could  see  the 
strained  anxiety  of  their  eyes.  It  was  a  relief  to 
have  them  go.  Then  the  Trained  Seals  were  with 
us,  lovely  things  like  gentle,  tidy,  sleek-headed  lit 
tle  girls.  My  heart  was  going  like  a  metronone 
set  for  a  tarantella  and  my  wrist-watch  ticked 
breathlessly — Coming — Coming — Coming ! ' ' 

If  only  we  were  Z  instead  of  C ! 

"Funny  thing,  you  know,"  said  the  occupant  of 
the  end  seat,  conversationally,  "they  tell  me 
they're  easier  than  any  other  animal  in  the  world 
to  train,  except  a  pig.  Fact.  Circus  man  told 
me." 

He  had  a  genial  face,  creased  into  jolly  patterns, 
and  my  heart  warmed  to  him,  and  to  Michael 
Daragh  and  the  pretty  girls  and  the  fat  old  lady 
in  front  of  me.  Nice  people,  kind  people.  It 
seemed  certain  that  they  must  want  real  things, 
clean  things. 

I  took  out  a  pencil  to  make  notes  for  corrections, 
but  the  annunciator  said  D,  and  a  lady  who  would 
have  done  nicely  as  Venus  came  out  attired  as 
Cupid  and  the  house  rocked  with  welcome.  I  was 
cold  with  conjecture.  What  had  happened  back 
there?  Had  my  poor  starveling  fainted  again? 
Had  BROTHER  's  brother  died  of  fright  ?  I  sat  shiv 
ering  through  the  sprightly  number  until  C,  said 
the  electric  lights,  and  the  orchestra  began  softly 
to  play — 

"In  days  of  old, 
When  knights  were  bold — " 
56 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


The  curtain  rose  on  the  bleak  telegraph  station, 
on  my  thin  spinster  in  her  rocking  chair.  It  was 
a  lean  vision  for  eyes  lately  ravished  by  the  Venus 
lady's  charms;  programs  rattled;  the  Tramp  Jug 
gler  was  to  follow.  I  could  see  her  chest  rising 
and  falling  jerkily  with  her  frightened  breath  and 
her  hands  shook  so  that  she  could  hardly  hold  her 
sewing.  From  far  aloft  came  that  loud  guffaw 
that  speaks  the  vacant  mind  and  one  of  the  pretty 
girls  next  me  giggled  in  echo.  Then  something 
seemed  to  go  through  my  waif;  the  Burne- Jones 
jaw  was  taut ;  she  got  hold  of  herself ;  then,  slowly, 
steadily,  surely,  little  by  little,  she  got  hold  of  the 
house.  The  man  on  the  end  who  had  slouched 
comfortably  down  in  his  seat,  sat  sharply  upright 
and  the  girls  stopped  whispering.  BKOTHER  came 
on,  and  his  brother  as  the  MAN.  The  tempo 
was  perfect,  the  acceleration  blood-quickening. 
Laughs  came  at  unexpected  places,  friendly  and 
cordial.  The  girl  was  like  a  melody  in  low  tones ; 
she  built  up  her  climax  cunningly,  warming,  color 
ing,  kindling. 

"Good  gad!"  ejaculated  the  spatted  gentleman 
in  the  aisle  seat,  "you  know,  that  girl  can  act!" 
The  old  lady  in  front  lifted  a  frank  handkerchief ; 
the  giggling  girls  were  raptly  watching.  Now  the 
GIKL'S  big  moment  came.  Her  voice,  faded  and 
gentle  before,  was  harsh  and  strident.  "I  don't 
care!  I  don't  care!  You  Jiush!  You  keep  still!" 

When  she  gave  him  his  broth  she  had  seemed 
the  gentlest  of  living  creatures ;  now,  pushing  him 

57 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


ruthlessly  to  the  floor,  she  was  a  fury,  pitiless,  ob 
sessed.  All  the  starved  romance,  all  the  pinched 
poverty  of  her  life,  all  the  lean  and  lonely  years 
she  had  known  cried  out  in  hunger,  not  to  be  de 
nied  ;  she  was  a  tigress  doing  battle  for  her  mate. 

And  then,  when  the  rattle  and  roar  of  the  train 
died  away,  BROTHER'S  hacking  cough  sounded  from 
behind  the  closed  door,  and  stark  reality  laid  hold 
on  her  again.  Her  thin  hands  went  together  on 
her  breast  and  then  fell  slackly  to  her  sides.  She 
seemed  visibly  to  shrink  and  shrivel.  Eacked  and 
spent  with  her  one  crowded  hour,  she  stood  looking 
into  the  bleak  and  empty  vista  of  the  years. 

I  was  in  the  aisle  before  the  curtain  fell,  speed 
ing  past  the  people,  the  applauding  people,  the 
beautiful,  kind,  understanding  people,  past  the 
benediction  of  Michael  Daragh's  lifted  look.  The 
applause  followed  me  out  through  the  lobby — oh, 
Sally  dear,  no  choir  invisible  could  make  half 
so  celestial  a  sound ! — and  when  I  got  behind  the 
scenes  it  was  still  coming  in — solid,  genuine, 
hearty  waves  of  it. 

I  heard  hurrying  feet  behind  me  but  I  did  not 
pause.  I  guessed  who  it  was,  but  I  wouldn't  turn 
to  look.  In  the  orderly  chaos  of  props  and  peo 
ple — and  it  was  an  ugly  land  of  disillusion  no 
longer  but  the  land  of  heart's  desire,  Sally — I 
found  my  gallant  little  band  of  fighting  hope, 
beaming  and  breathless  after  the  fifth  honest  cur 
tain,  coming  to  me  on  buoyant  feet. 

Stern  St.  Michael  had  caught  up  with  me  then, 

58 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


and  he  bent  his  austere  head  to  say  very  humbly, 
" Woman,  dear,  I'm  so  high  with  pride  for  yon, 
and  so  low  with  shame  for  me,  that  I  could  ever 
be  doubting " 

But  the  grimy  young  stagehand,  halting  in  front 
of  me  with  an  armful  of  the  Tramp  Juggler's  play 
things,  cut  his  sentence  in  two. 

"Say," — he  held  out  a  dark  and  hearty  paw — 
"put  her  there,  sister!  Say,  I  guess  maybe  that's 
poor?  Say,  I  guess  maybe  that's  not  puttin*  it 
over!" 

Jubilantly, 

JANE. 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  grave  Irishman,  Michael  Daragh,  was 
a  constant  delight.  He  was  no  more  aware, 
she  saw  clearly,  of  her  as  a  person,  as  a 
woman,  than  he  was  of  Emma  Ellis  of  the  lidlike 
hats  and  shabby  hair.  Nothing  that  was  human 
was  alien  to  him,  certainly,  and  nothing  that  was 
feminine  was  anything  more  than  merely  human 
to  him.  It  appeared,  however,  that  he  did  have 
a  sense  of  values  of  a  sort,  for  he  halted  her  in 
the  hall,  one  dark  December  day,  with  a  request. 
Would  she  be  coming  with  him  to-morrow  to  the 
Agnes  Chatterton  Home,  where  there  was  a  girl 
in  black  sorrow? 

"Why,  yes,  of  course  I'll  come,  but — why?" 
Jane  wanted  to  know.  "What  makes  you  think  I 
could  help  ?  I  don 't  know  very  much  about — that 
sort  of  thing." 

He  smiled  swiftly  and  winningly  and  it  was 
astonishing  to  see  how  the  process  lighted  up  his 
lean  face.  "Ah,  that's  the  reason!  She's  had 
her  fill  of  us,  God  help  her.  The  way  we  've  been 

60 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


exhorting  her  for  days  on  end.  You'll  be  bring 
ing  a  fresh  face  and  a  fresh  feeling  to  the  case. 
And" — he  stopped  and  looked  her  over  consider 
ingly — "  'tis  your  sort  can  help  and  heal." 

"Why?"  Jane  persisted.  She  was  finding  the 
conversation  piquantly  interesting. 

"Because,"  said  Michael  Daragh,  and  she  had 
the  startled  feeling  that  he  was  not  in  the  least 
paying  her  a  compliment  but  rather  laying  a 
charge  upon  her,  "you  have  been  anointed  with 
the  oil  of  joy  above  your  fellows."  Then,  quite  as 
if  the  matter  were  wholly  settled,  he  gave  her  di 
rections  and  went  his  way. 

Jane  had  never  seen  an  Agnes  Chatterton  Home. 
She  had  heard  of  them,  of  course,  as  asylums  for 
what  the  village  called  Unfortunate  Girls,  furtive 
and  remote  retreats  for  stricken  creatures  who 
fled  the  light  of  day,  but  when  she  found  herself 
actually  on  her  way  to  see  one,  the  following  day, 
she  slackened  her  pace  and  made  her  way  more 
slowly  and  with  conscious  reluctance.  She  was 
a  little  annoyed  with  herself  for  acquiescing  so 
meekly  to  the  big  Irishman's  plan.  After  all,  she 
had  not  broken  the  old  home  ties  (to  put  it  lyri 
cally)  for  this  sort  of  thing,  now,  had  she?  She 
had  to  come  to  New  York  to  seek  her  fortune,  not 
to — to — whatever  it  was  that  Michael  Daragh 

61 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


wanted  her  to  do.  And  yet,  she  was  always  being 
drawn,  willynilly,  into  any  woe  within  her  ken. 
Herself  a  contained  creature  of  radiant  health  and 
placid  nerves  with  a  positively  masculine  aversion 
to  scenes  and  applied  emotion  of  any  sort,  people 
were  always  coming  and  confiding  in  her.  She 
had  been  the  reluctant  repository  for  the  secrets 
of  half  her  little  town.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  and 
this  she  could  not  know  of  herself,  it  was  because 
she  demonstrated  the  solid  theory  that  one  happy 
person  was  worth  six  who  were  trying  to  make 
others  happy.  But  now  she  was  marching  delib 
erately  into  the  heart  of  a  misery  which  did  not 
in  the  least  concern  her  and  where,  she  felt  sure, 
she  would  be  wholly  unwelcome.  She  stood  still 
in  an  unsavory  thoroughfare,  seriously  consider 
ing  a  retreat,  but  she  saw  Michael  Daragh  waiting 
for  her  on  the  next  corner,  and  she  kept  on. 

"I  very  nearly  turned  back,"  she  said.  "And 
I  very  nearly  didn't  come  at  all.  I  had  the  most 
alluring  invitation  for  matinee  and  tea."  (Eod- 
ney  Harrison  had  been  most  insistent.) 

"I  had  your  word  you'd  be  coming,"  said  the 
Irishman.  He  looked  at  her  impersonally.  She 
was  buttoned  to  the  chin  in  a  cloak  the  color  of 
old  red  wine  and  there  was  a  jubilant  red  wing  in 
her  dark  turban,  and  it  may  have  occurred  to  him 

62 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


that  she  made  a  thread  of  good  cheer  in  the  dull 
woof  of  that  street,  but  he  went  at  once  into  the 
story. 

"Ethel's  lived  on  at  the  Home  ever  since  her 
baby  was  born.  It'll  be  two,  soon,  and  herself 
going  for  eighteen/' 

"Eighteen?    Oh " 

"Yes.  Doing  grandly,  she  is,  in  the  same  shop 
as  her  good  elder  sister.  Well,  one  day  she  tells 
the  matron  she  has  a  sweetheart,  a  decent  chap, 
wanting  to  marry  her. 

"  'Fine/  says  Mrs.  Eichards.  'What  were  we 
always  telling  you?  And  will  he  be  good  to  the 
baby?' 

"  'He  doesn't  know  I've  the  baby,'  says  Ethel, 
'and  what's  more  he  never  will!' 

"  'You'll  be  giving  up  your  child,  that  you  kept 
of  your  own  free  will,  that  you've  worked  and 
slaved  for,  and  be  wedding  him  with  the  secret  on 
your  soul?' 

"  'I  will,'  says  the  girl,  and  not  all  the  king's 
horses  and  all  the  king's  men  can  move  her,  Jane 
Vail."  They  were  picking  their  way  through  a 
damp  and  squalid  street  and  he  stooped  to  set  a 
wailing  toddler  on  its  unsteady  feet. 

"  'Tis  the  sister's  doing,  we  think,  she  the  hard, 
managing  kind  and  Ethel  the  weak  slip  of  a  thing. 

63 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


Coming  to-day,  Irene  is,  to  carry  it  off  to  the  place 
she's  found  for  it — some  distant  kin  down  Boston 
way,  long  wanting  to  adopt  and  never  dreaming 
this  child  is  their  own  blood." 

"Doesn't  Ethel  care  for  the  baby?" 

"There's  the  heart  scald.  'Tis  the  light  of  Her 
eyes.  But  Irene,  d'you  see,  has  scared  her  into 
feeling  sure  she'll  lose  him  if  she  tells.  Wait  till 
yon  see  the  look  she  has  on  her.  *  Supping  the 
broth  of  sorrow  with  the  spoon  of  grief,'  they 
would  be  calling  it,  home  in  Wicklow." 

"And  I'm  to  talk  to  her — to  beg  her  to  tell 
him?" 

He  nodded. 

Jane  sighed.  ' '  She  '11  loathe  me,  of  course, — an 
absolute  outsider.  Coming  in — nobly  giving  up 
a  matinee  and  tea — to  rearrange  her  life  for  her. 
Oh,  I  don't  believe  I  dare!" 

He  nodded  again,  comprehendingly.  "I  know 
well  the  way  you're  feeling.  But  with  the  likes 
of  her,  poor  child,  somebody  has  to  rearrange  the 
lives  they've  mussed  and  mangled!" 

Jane  sighed  again.  "I'll  try,  Michael  Daragh. 
You  know,  your  two  names  make  me  think  of  the 
wind  off  the  three  lakes  on  the  road  to  Kenmare 
and  the  black  line  of  the  McGillicuddy  Reeks 
against  the  sky?" 

64 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


His  eyes  lighted.  "  'Tis  good,  indeed,  to  know 
you've  seen  Ireland.  Whiles,  I'm  destroyed  with 
the  homesickness."  He  kept  a  long  silence  after 
that,  his  eyes  brooding. 

Jane  watched  him  and  wondered.  '  '  He 's  a  mys 
tery  to  me,"  Mrs.  Hetty  Hills  always  appended 
after  a  mention  of  him.  (It  teased  her  to  have 
mysteries  in  her  boarding-house.)  "Has  an  in 
come,  of  course — has  to  have,  to  live — doesn't  earn 
anything  worth  mentioning  with  all  this  uplift 
work — and  gives  away  what  he  does  get.  Emma 
Ellis  doesn  't  know  any  more  about  him  than  I  do. 
But  I  will  say  he's  less  trouble  than  any  man  I 
ever  had  under  my  roof.  And,  of  course,  he's  not 
common  Irish."  (Mrs.  Hills  had  still  her  Ver 
mont  village  feeling  of  red-armed,  kitchen  minions, 
freckled  butcher  boys  running  up  alley-ways, 
short-tempered  dames  in  battered  hats  who  came 
— or  distressingly  didn't  come — to  you  of  a  Mon 
day  morning.) 

They  walked  swiftly  and  without  speech  now, 
and  Jane  had  again  her  sense  of  his  resemblance 
to  the  Botticelli  St.  Michael.  "He  ought  really  to 
be  carrying  his  sword  and  his  symbol,"  she  told 
herself,  "and  I  daresay  Raphael  and  Gabriel  are 
beside  him  if  I  could  only  see  them.  Am  I  To 
bias?  And  have  I  a  fish  to  heal  a  blindness?" 

65 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


"There's  the  house, "  said  Michael  Daragh,  at 
length. 

*  *  Of  course, ' '  said  Jane,  indignantly.  *  '  I  should 
have  known  it  at  once,  even  without  the  hideous 
sign,  for  its  smugly  dreary  look  of  good  works! 
Why  must  they  have  that  liver-colored  glass  in 
the  door  ? ' '  They  mounted  the  worn  steps.  *  *  And 
*  Welcome'  on  the  mat!  Oh,  Michael  Daragh,  how 
ghastly!  Who  did  that  to  them?" 

He  shook  his  head.  "Most  of  our  things  are 
given,  you  see. ' '  He  rang  the  bell  and  they  heard 
its  harsh  and  startling  clamor. 

A  sullen-faced  girl  in  a  coarse,  enveloping  pina 
fore  opened  the  door.  Her  hands  and  arms  were 
red  and  dripping  and  from  a  dim  region  at  the 
rear  came  the  smell  of  dishwater.  Down  the  nar 
row,  precipitate  stairway  floated  an  infant's  thin,' 
protesting  wail  and  Jane  felt  a  sick  sense  of  sud 
den  nausea. 

"Thank  you,  Lena,"  said  the  Irishman.  "This 
lady  is  Jane  Vail,  a  good  friend  come  to  see  us." 

The  girl,  who  might  have  been  sixteen,  gave 
Jane  a  stolid,  incurious  look  and  shuffled  down 
the  hall,  closing  the  door  on  a  portion  of  the  stale 
smell. 

Mrs.  Eichards  was  in  her  office.  She  greeted 
Jane  civilly  but  eyed  her  in  some  puzzlement. 

66 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Here  was  a  strange  bird,  clearly,  to  alight  in  this 
dingy  barnyard. 

"Jane  Vail  will  be  trying  her  hand  at  Ethel 
for  us,"  Michael  Daragh  said. 

The  matron  bridled  a  little.  She  was  a  pallid, 
tired  woman  with  skeptical  eyes.  "Well,  I'm  sure 
that's  very  kind  of  her  but  I'm  afraid  it's  no  use. 
I've  just  come  down  from  talking  to  her,  nearly 
all  her  noon  hour.  She  wouldn't  go  to  the  table. 
She's  turned  sullen,  now.  She  won't  take  any 
interest  in  the  Christmas  preparations;  wouldn't 
help  the  girls  a  bit."  She  sighed  and  looked  at 
a  table  cluttered  with  paper  paraphernalia  for 
holiday  decorations.  In  her  world  of  bleak  reali 
ties  the  tinsel  trimmings  for  fete  days  left  her 
cold.  "I  declare,  Mr.  Daragh,  I  believe  we've 
worried  with  her  long  enough.  I've  about  made 
up  my  mind  that  we'd  better  tell  the  young  man 
ourselves  and  have  done  with  it.  I  believe  it's 
our  duty." 

"It's  her  right,"  said  Michael  Daragh. 

"But,  if  she  won't?  They're  planning  to  be 
married  Monday,  and  Irene's  coming  to-day  to 
take  Billiken  away  with  her." 

"Let  Jane  Vail  be  trying  her  hand.  Will  you 
come  up  to  her  now?"  He  strode  out  of  the  room 
and  Jane  followed  him,  smiling  back  at  Mrs.  Eich- 

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JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


ards  with  a  deprecatory  shake  of  her  head.  She 
wished  the  matron  could  know  how  much  of  an 
intruder  she  felt.  But  once  out  of  the  severe  little 
office,  mounting  the  stairs  after  Michael  Daragh, 
her  usual  vivid  sense  of  drama  came  back  to  her. 
This  was,  after  all,  what  she  had  left  the  snug 
harbor  for  and  put  out  to  sea.  This  was  better 
than  tea  with  Sarah  Farraday  in  the  "studio"— 
than  "little  gatherings  of  the  young  people," — 
than  walking  home  with  Marty  Wetherby — than 
laughing  painstakingly  at  the  jokes  of  Teddy- 
bear's  father.  This  was  life  more  abundantly. 

It  didn't  even  matter  that  the  grave  Irishman 
took  so  for  granted  her  dedication  to  this  obscure 
girl's  need.  That  had  been  very  nice  .  .  .  about 
the  oil  of  joy. 

"Here's  where  she'll  be,"  he  said,  pausing  at  a 
closed  door,  "feeding  her  child." 

"I'll  do  what  I  can,"  said  Jane,  lifting  a  look  of 
girded  resolve. 

"I  know  that,  surely,"  said  Michael  Daragh, 
knocking  for  her. 


CHAPTER  VI 

"  X^  OING  for  eighteen,"  he  had  said,  but 

I     -jr  even  that  had  not  prepared  Jane  for  the 

^-^  poignant  youth  of  the  girl.  She  looked 
a  child,  in  her  shrunken  middy  blouse,  her  fair  hair 
hanging  about  her  eyes.  She  was  sitting  on  the 
floor,  urging  bread  and  milk  on  a  fat  and  gurgling 
baby  in  a  little  red  chair.  She  did  not  look  up  at 
first,  but  went  on  speaking  to  the  child. 

"Please,  Billiken,  eat  for  Muddie!  Billiken — 
when  it's  the  last  time  Muddie '11  ever  have  to  feed 
you?  Take  it  quick  or  Muddie '11  give  it  to  the 
kitty-cat!" 

'  '  Ethel  1 ' '  Jane  closed  the  door  softly  and  came 
toward  her. 

The  other  eyed  her  defensively  and  she  tried  to 
tidy  her  hair  with  hands  that  shook.  On  the  left 
was  a  tiny,  pinhead  solitaire. 

"I  am  Michael  Daragh's  friend,  Ethel.  He 
asked  me  to  talk  with  you." 

* '  Oh,  my  God ! ' '  Little  red  spots  of  rage  flamed 
in  her  thin  cheeks  and  she  struck  her  hands  to- 

69 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


gether.  " Can't  they  leave  me  alone?  I've  told 
'em  I  won't  talk  any  more.  IVe  told  'em  my 
mind's  made  up  for  keeps.  But  they  keep  at  me 
and  keep  at  me!" 

Jane  stood  still.  "I  know  I  haven't  any  right 
here,"  she  said,  distressedly,  "and  I  know  you 
don't  want  me." 

The  girl  scrambled  to  her  feet  and  went  to  the 
bureau  where  she  stood  pulling  and  patting  at  her 
hair.  "What'd  you  come  for,  then?"  She  mut 
tered  it  under  her  breath,  but  Jane  caught  the 
words. 

"Well,  if  you  know  Michael  Daragh,  you  must 
know  that  when  he  asks  you  to  do  a  thing,  even 
a  hard  one,  you — just  do  it!"  Ethel  did  not  com 
ment  or  turn  her  head  and  Jane  found  the  sense 
of  drama  which  had  borne  her  so  buoyantly  up 
the  stairs  deserting  her.  She  wanted  to  go  out 
of  that  drab  room  and  down  those  drab  stairs  and 
out  of  that  drab  house  forever,  but  she  resolutely 
forced  herself  to  cross  the  room  and  bent  down 
beside  the  giddy  little  red  chair. 

"Why  do  you  call  her  Billiken?" 

"Can't  you  see?"  It  was  curt  and  sullen,  not 
at  all  the  tone  for  an  Unfortunate  Girl  to  employ 
toward  a  young  lady  anointed  with  the  oil  of  joy. 
"She  grins  just  like  the  Billikens  do.  Ever  since 

70 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


she  was  a  teenty  thing. "  She  gave  her  caller  a 
long,  rebellious  stare.  "You  don't  look  like  a 
nurse  or  a  Do-gooder. " 

"I'm  not,"  said  Jane  promptly.  "I'm  merely 
Michael  Daragh's  fr "  She  broke  off,  catch 
ing  herself  up.  Well,  now,  was  she?  His  friend, 
after  a  few  weeks  of  slenderest  acquaintance  ?  She 
had  a  feeling  that  the  grave  Irishman  had  obeyed 
the  command  to  come  apart  and  be  separate.  Rod 
ney  Harrison  was  a  warm  and  tangible  friend,  but 
this  stern  and  single-purposed  person — "Michael 
Daragh  asked  me  to  talk  with  you,"  she  said,  sit 
ting  down  beside  the  baby.  "I'd  love  to  feed  her. 
May  I?" 

"No!"  Ethel  swooped  down  on  her  child,  jeal 
ously  snatching  up  the  bowl.  "Not  when  it's  my 
last  chance!"  She  leveled  a  spoonful  and  held  it 
to  the  widely  grinning  Billiken.  "Come !  Gobble 
— gobble!  Eat  for  poor  Muddie!"  A  wave  of 
self-pity  went  visibly  over  her  and  she  held  her 
head  down  to  keep  Jane  from  seeing  her  tears. 

"I  don't  see  how  you  can  bear  to  give  her  up." 

"D'you  s'pose  I  want  to?"  she  snarled  it,  sav 
agely.  Here  was  maternity,  parenthood,  another 
breed  than  that  of  the  Teddy-bear's  hot,  pink 
nursery. 

71 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Jane  picked  up  the  baby's  stubby  little  hand  and 
patted  it.  '  '  Then,  why  do  you  I ' ' 

Ethel's  face  flamed,  but  she  looked  her  inquisi 
tor  more  fully  in  the  eye  than  she  had  done  at  any 
time  before.  "Because — Jerry!  Jerry!  That's 
why." 

"Oh  ...  I  see.  You  care  more  for  him  than 
for  your  baby?" 

Now  there  came  into  the  childish  face  a  look  of 
shrewd  and  calculating  wisdom.  "I  can — I  could 
— have  other  babies,  but  I  couldn't  ever  have  an 
other — Mm!"  Strength  here,  of  a  sort,  it  ap 
peared,  in  this  Weak  Sister. 

"It  must  be  very  wonderful  to  care  for  any  one 
like  that, "  said  Jane,  respectfully.  The  girl  looked 
at  her  with  quick  suspicion,  but  her  eyes  were  en 
tirely  honest.  "What  is  he  like,  this  Jerry  per 
son?" 

Ethel  relaxed  a  little  and  the  tensest  lines 
smoothed  out  of  her  face.  "Well  ..."  she  took 
her  time  to  it,  sorting  and  choosing  her  words, 
"he's  not  good-looking,  but  he  looks — good." 

Jane  nodded  understandingly.  "I  know.  I 
know  people  like  that." 

"Handsome  men  .  .  .  you  can't  trust  'em. . . ." 
A  look  of  wintry  reminiscence  came  into  her  eyes 
for  an  instant.  "I  think  more  of  Jerry  than — 

72 


JANE   JOUENEYS    ON 


than  anybody,  ever.  I  can't  remember  my  folks. 
They  died  when  I  was  just  a  little  thing.  My 
sister  Irene,  well,  I  guess  she  meant  all  right, 
only,  she  was  so  awful  proper,  always.  She  was 
always  scared  to  talk  about — things.  I  never  knew 
am/thing  till  I  knew — everything!"  A  small 
shiver  went  over  her  at  that  and  she  was  still  for 
a  moment.  *  '  But  Jerry ! ' '  Her  mouth  was  young 
and  soft  again  on  that  word.  '  '  He 's  different  from 
anything  I  ever  thought  a  man  could  be.  He 's  al 
most  like  a  girl,  some  ways.  You  know,  I  mean 
just  as  nice  and  comfortable  to  talk  to  and  be 
with."  She  kept  her  gaze  on  Jane's  warmly  com 
prehending  face,  now.  "And  he's  awful  smart, 
too.  The  firm  wants  to  send  him  to  the  branch 
store  in  Eochester  and  put  him  in  charge  of  Gent's 
Furnishings.  I  guess  I'd  like  to  live  there  .  .  . 
where  everybody 'd  be  strange.  Jerry,  he  don't 
know  where  I  live.  I  never  let  him  bring  me  clear 
home.  Mrs.  Eichards — she 's  the  matron — she  says 
he'll  find  out  about  me  some  day  and  hate  me,  but 
he  won't  find  out.  Nobody  knows  except  Irene 
and  the  people  here, — and  nobody 'd  be  mean 
,  enough  to  just  go  and  tattle  to  him, — would  they?" 
"Oh,  I  don't  believe  any  one  would,  intention 
ally.  But"  (how  appeal  to  a  sense  of  fair  play 

73 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


where  no  fair  play  had  been?)  "that  isn't  what 
frightens  me,  Ethel." 

"What?  You  needn't  be  scared  about  Billiken. 
She'll  be  all  right.  They're  awful  nice  people, 
rich  and  everything,  and  they're  crazy  to  have  her. 
'A  blue-eyed  girl  with  curly  hair  and  a  cheerful 
disposition,'  they  says  to  Irene.  And  they  think 
her  mother's  dead." 

"I  wasn't  thinking  of  Billiken." 

"Oh,"  said  Ethel,  warily. 

"I  was  thinking  of  Jerry.  If  he's  as  fine  as  you 
say  he  is " 

"He  is!" 

"Then  I  think  it's  pretty  mean  not  to  play  fair 
with  him,  don't  you?  Come,"  said  Jane  with  a 
brisk  heartiness  she  was  far  from  feeling,  "tell 
him  to-day,  right  now,  when  you  go  back." 

She  shook  a  stubborn  head.  "Now  you're  be 
ing  just  like  all  the  rest  of  'em.  I  thought  you 
sort  of — understood." 

6 '  I  think  I  do.   But  I  believe  you  must  tell  him. ' 9 

"Well,  it's  too  late  now.  Irene's  coming  to 
day  to  take  Billiken.  It's  all  settled  and  every 
thing.  It's  too  late  now,  even  if  I  wanted  to.  Be 
sides" — she  flamed  with  hot  color  again — "I 
couldn't  tell  him  in  the  daytime  .  .  .  right  there 
in  the  store!" 

74 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


"Oh,  Ethel — in  anything  so  big, — something 
that  means  your  whole  life, — time  and  place  can't 
matter." 

The  girl  began  to  dab  at  her  eyes  with  a  damp, 
small  wad  of  blue-bordered  handkerchief.  "I  just 
couldn't  tell  him  in  the  daytime.  I  nearly  did,  last 
night.  I  meant  to,  'cross-my-heart,'  I  did!  We 
went  for  a  walk,  and  I  was  just — just  sort  of  be 
ginning  when  a  woman  came  sneaking  by  and — 
said  something  to  him.  You  know.  And  he  said 
— '  Poor  devil!'  That's  what  he  called  her.  'Poor 
devil!'  That's  just  how  he  said  it."  Now  she 
dropped  her  inadequate  handkerchief  and  wept 
convulsively  into  her  hands  and  a  thin  shaft  of 
sunshine  lighted  up  the  meager  solitaire. 

Billiken  leaned  forward,  her  fat,  small  face  filled 
with  contrition  and  patted  her  mother  on  her 
bowed  head.  "Billiken  gob — gobble  din — din! 
Muddie  not  cly!" 

It  seemed  to  Jane  that  she  was  marching  end 
lessly  round  a  Jericho  with  walls  that  reached  to 
the  sky  with  a  flimsy  tin  toy  trumpet  in  her  hands. 
How  blow  a  blast  to  shatter  them?  "Ethel,  the 
only  thing  you  can  bring  him  is  the  truth.  Are 
you  going  to  give  him  a  lie  for  his  wedding  gift?" 

She  winced  but  her  mouth  was  sullen.  "You 

75 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


can  make  me  feel  terrible,  but  you  can't  make  me 
tell." 

"No,"  said  Jane,  "I  can't  make  you  tell.  And 
Mrs.  Richards  can't  make  you  tell,  nor  even 
Michael  Daragh.  But — your  own  heart  can." 
She  leaned  swiftly  nearer  and  put  an  arm  about 
the  flat,  little  figure.  "  Ethel,  how  much  do  you 
love  him!" 

"More'n — anything  in  the  world." 

"More  than  Irene?"  The  affirming  nod  was 
quick  and  positive.  "More  than  the  baby?" 
Again  the  nod,  slower,  but  still  sure.  "But  that's 
not  enough,  Ethel.  You  don't  know  anything 
about  loving  unless  you  love  him  more  than  you 
love  yourself." 

The  girl  wriggled  out  of  her  clasp  and  stared  at 
her. 

"Do  you  know  what  I'm  trying  to  say  to  you? 
I  don't  know  as  much  about  loving  as  you  do, 
Ethel.  I've  never  loved  any  one — yet.  But  I 
know  this !  Your  Jerry  may  never  find  out  about 
your  trouble,  but  whether  he  does  or  not,  you 
couldn't  be  happy  while  you  knew  you  were  cheat 
ing  him, — while  you  knew  you  had  married  him 
without  telling  him  the  thing  it's  his  right  to 
know.  Ethel,  you've  got  to  love  him  more  than 

76 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


yourself.  YouVe  got  to  love  Mm  more  than  you 
want  him!" 

The  color  ebbed  slowly  out  of  Ethel's  small  face 
and  Billiken  began  to  whimper.  Far  down  the 
street  the  inevitable  hurdy-gurdy  ground  out  the 
inevitable  "Marseillaise."  "La  jour  de  gloire 
est  arrive!"  Was  it? 

' '  Love  him, — more  than  I  want  him  ? ' '  She  said 
it  over  in  a  halting  whisper.  "Love  him  more 
than  I — "  Her  lips  moved  inaudibly,  forming 
the  second  half  of  the  sentence.  She  bent  over 
Billiken,  crushing  her  in  an  embrace  which  made 
her  cry.  Then  she  caught  up  her  foolish  little  hat 
and  jammed  it  on  without  a  glance  at  the  mirror 
and  flung  herself  into  her  coat.  "I  better  go 
quick!"  She  was  still  whispering.  "I  better  go 
quick!"  She  ran  out  of  the  room.  Jane  heard 
her  on  the  stairs,  then  the  slam  of  the  front  door 
and  the  sharp  staccato  of  her  feet  upon  the  side 
walk. 

Billiken,  released  from  the  spell,  lifted  up  her 
voice  and  shrilly  wept,  passionately  pushing  away 
her  bowl  and  spoon,  roaring  with  rage  when  Jane 
tried  to  touch  her.  It  seemed  to  Jane  that  there 
was  furious  accusation  in  the  small,  red  counte 
nance.  "Don't  shriek  at  me  like  that,"  she  said, 

77 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


indignantly.    "I'm  not  taking  your  mother  away 
from  you, — I'm  trying  to  keep  her  for  you!" 

The  door  opened  and  Michael  Daragh  came  in, 
his  face  glowing.  "From  the  look  she  had  on  her 
when  she  flew  by,"  he  said,  "I'm  thinking  you've 
surely  won  where  the  rest  of  us  lost." 

"I  think  she's  going  to  tell  him,"  said  Jane, 
soberly. 

'  '  Glory  be ! "  he  said,  fervently. 

Jane  sighed.  "She's  going  to  tell  him,  in  the 
garish  daylight,  at  the  Gent's  Furnishing  coun 
ter.  If  she  can !  But  she 's  left  me  with  the '  heart- 
scald'!" 

Michael  Daragh  had  picked  up  Billiken  at  once 
and  at  once  she  had  ceased  to  roar  and  soothed  to 
a  whimpering  cry.  "Hush,  now  acushla,"  he 
said,  "hush  now, — let  you  be  still,  solis  na  suile!" 
The  baby  stopped  altogether,  her  ear  intrigued  by 
the  purling  Gaelic.  * '  If  you  '11  be  slipping  out  now, 
the  way  she  won't  be  noticing,  I'll  have  her  fine 
and  fast  asleep  in  two  flips  of  a  dead  lamb's  tail!" 

Jane  slipped  out  obediently  and  stepped  softly 
down  the  precipitate  stair.  The  matron  looked  up, 
her  lips  thinly  compressed. 

"Mr.  Daragh  thinks  you  have  persuaded  her  to 
tell." 

78 


JANE   JOUBNEYS   ON 


"I  can't  be  sure.  I  think  she  meant  to  tell  him 
when  she  left  here." 

"Well,  I  guess  she'll  change  her  mind  by  the 
time  she  gets  to  the  store.  She 's  very  weak,  Ethel 
is." 

"But  there  isn't  anything  weak  about  the  way 
she  cares  for  the  Jerry  person." 

Mrs.  Eichards'  lips  tightened  to  a  taut  line. 
"When  they  get  mad  crazy  about  a  man"  (the 
plural  pronoun  pigeonholed  Ethel  in  a  class) 
"they're  like  the  Bock  of  Gibraltar." 

"I'd  like  to  stay  the  rest  of  the  afternoon,  if 
you  don't  mind,"  said  Jane,  at  her  winningest. 
"That  is,  if  there's  something  I  can  do?"  She 
looked  at  the  littered  table. 

' '  How 'd  you  like  to  cut  out  the  paper  joy-bells  f ' 9 
The  matron  melted  a  little.  "A  lady  brought  in 
the  paper  and  the  pattern  yesterday,  but  I  haven't 
had  time  to  get  the  girls  at  them  yet." 

"But — that's  magenta-colored!"  Jane  picked 
up  a  sheet  of  the  paper. 

"Well,  I  guess  it  isn't  the  regular  Christmas 
shade,  but  I  don't  know  that  it  matters,  particu 
larly.  I  expect  it  was  some  she  had  in  the  house. 
You  might  put  the  girls  at  cutting  them  out  and 
you  could  do  the  Merry  Christmas  sign."  She 
gave  her  a  long  and  narrow  placard  in  mustard 

79 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


green  and  shook  out  some  pattern  letters  from  an 
envelope.  Then  she  rang  a  firm  and  authoritative 
bell.  "I'll  have  the  girls  assemble  in  the  dining 
room  and  they  can  work  at  the  big  table." 

Immediately  there  were  shuffling  feet  in  the  hall, 
slow  feet  on  the  stair,  a  heavy  tread  in  the  dining 
room  behind  them.  Where  was  the  youth  in  those 
young  feet?  There  was  something  in  the  drag 
ging  gait  that  made  Jane  shiver.  Seventeen  of 
them  seated  themselves  about  the  long  table,  all 
in  huge,  enveloping  pinafores  of  dull  brown  stuff, 
coarse  and  stiff.  They  ranged  in  age  from  twenty 
to  twelve  but  on  every  face,  pretty  or  plain,  stolid 
or  wistful,  sullen  or  sweet,  she  read  the  same  look 
of  crushed  and  helpless  waiting.  She  spread  out 
her  materials  and  gave  her  directions  and  the 
girls  set  soberly  to  work.  Seventeen  heads  bent 
in  silence  over  the  table ;  scissors  creaked ;  upstairs 
a  baby  cried  fretfully.  There  leapt  into  Jane's 
mind  a  memory  picture  of  Nannie  Slade  Hunter 
before  the  joyfully  hailed  arrival  of  the  Teddy- 
bear, — the  tiny,  white,  enameled  chiffonier  with 
its  little  bunches  of  painted  flowers  spilling  over 
with  offerings — Lilliputian  garments  as  'fine  as 
a  fairy's  first  tooth' — the  chortling  pride  of  Ed 
ward  E. — the  beaming,  nervous  mother  and 
mother-in-law — the  endless  flowers  and  books; 

80 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Nannie  herself,  cunningly  draped  and  swathed  in 
Batik  crepe,  prettier  than  ever  before  in  her  pretty 
life- 
Jane  went  quickly  out  of  the  room  and  sat  down 
on  the  bottom  step  of  the  stairs  which  seemed  to 
be  rushing  headlong  out  of  the  house  of  drab 
tragedy. 

"What  is  it!"    Michael  Daragh  bent  over  her. 

She  lifted  a  twisting  face.  "Michael  Daragh,  I 
never  cry,  even  at  funerals,  but  I'm  going  to  cry 
now!" 

"Now  that  would  be  the  great  waste  of  time 
surely,"  he  smiled  down  at  her.  "Masefield  has 
the  true  word  for  it, — '  Energy  is  agony  expelled/ 
says  he.  Let  you  be  making  that  Merry  Christmas 
sign  the  while  you're  sorrowing." 

"There  they  sit — in  those  awful,  mud-colored 
pinafores — making  paper  joy-bells!  I  can't  bear 
it!  M agenta  joy-bells!"  The  matron  started  up 
stairs  and  Jane  drew  aside  to  let  her  pass.  "What 
are  they  going  to  have  for  Christmas,  Mrs.  Bich- 
ards?" 

"Well,  we  have  a  real  nice  dinner, — not  turkey, 
of  course,  but  a  nice  dinner,"  said  the  matron, 
"and  every  girl  gets  a  pair  of  stockings  and  a 
handkerchief  and  a  Christmas  postcard " 

"With  more  joy-bells?"  Jane  wanted  hotly  to 

81 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


know,  "or  an  angel  in  a  nightdress  and  a  snow 
scene  ?" 

Mrs.  Richards  went  firmly  up  the  stairs.  "We 
naturally  cannot  take  much  time  to  pick  out  the 
subjects,  but  every  girl  gets  a  pretty  card." 

Jane  got  swiftly  to  her  feet.  "Michael  DaragK, 
do  you  know  what  I  'm  going  to  do  ?  "  She  hadn  't 
known  herself  an  instant  earlier.  "I'm  not  going 
home  to  Vermont  for  the  holidays!  I'm  going  to 
stay  and  help  with  the  Christmasing  here — and 
I'll  spend  the  money  I  would  have  spent  on  my 
trip.  I'm  going  to  buy  holly  and  greens  and  miles 
of  red  ribbon  and  acres  of  tissue  paper  and  a  mil 
lion  stickers,  and  seventeen  presents — seventeen 
perfectly  useless,  foolish,  unsuitable,  beautiful 
things!  Do  you  hear,  Michael  Daragh?" 

' i  I  hear, ' 9  he  said,  and  again  his  lean  face  lighted 
oddly  from  within,  "I  hear,  God  save  you  kindly, 
and  I'm  rare  and  thankful  to  you,  Jane  Vail!" 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  doorbell  cut  jaggedly  into  Jane's  ex 
alted  mood  and  she  went  into  the  office  and 
sat  down  to  work  on  the  Merry  Christmas 
sign.  She  meant  to  replace  it  with  a  joyful  scarlet 
one,  but  meanwhile  it  would  keep  her  fingers  busy 
and  give  her  an  excuse  for  lingering  until  Ethel 
came  back  with  the  news  of  her  confession  and  its 
results,  and  she  could  be  planning  the  holiday 
cheer  she  meant  to  make  in  this  melancholy  house. 
She  was  still  rather  startled  at  her  sudden  de 
cision  but  pleased  with  herself  beyond  words.  To 
give  up  the  festive  return  to  the  village  .  .  .  her 
Aunt  Lydia's  damp-eyed  delight,  the  "little  gath 
erings  of  the  young  people"  in  her  honor,  the  gay 
and  jingling  joy  of  the  season  .  .  .  and  stay  in  a 
boarding  house  and  make  determined  merriment 
for  the  Agnes  Chatterton  home.  Then,  tracing  a 
large  and  ugly  M,  she  laughed  aloud.  The  truth 
was,  she  told  herself  flatly,  she  was  pleased  to  the 
marrow  of  her  bones  to  be  here  instead  of  there, 
not  only  in  fresh  fields  and  pastures  thrillingly 

83 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


and  picturesquely  new,  but  away  from  the  reckless 
necessity  for  settling  the  Marty  Wetherby  matter 
once  and  for  all.  And  the  big  Irishman  seemed 
almost  pathetically  pleased  at  her  announcement, 
and  it  was  entirely  conceivable  that  Rodney  Har 
rison  would  provide  flesh-pots  and  diversions.  All 
in  all,  she  was  cannily  glad  to  abide  by  her  hasty 
and  handsome  offer,  and  she  worked  steadily  at 
her  letters  while  Mrs.  Richards  wrote  at  her  lit 
tered  desk. 

The  doorbell  rang  again  and  Mrs.  Richards 
peered  out  into  the  hall. 

"Well,  there's  Irene,  come  for  Billiken!  That 
doesn't  look  much  as  if  Ethel  had  told  him." 
There  was  a  good  deal  of  triumph  in  the  glance  she 
flung  at  Jane.  "Well,  I  can't  say  I'm  surprised; 
I  didn't  think  she'd  have  the  courage." 

Michael  Daragh  came  in,  his  face  grave. 
"Here 's  Irene,  come  for  the  child.  I  don't  like  the 
look  of  it." 

"Well,  I'm  not  surprised,"  said  Mrs.  Richards 
again. 

A  young  woman  presented  herself  at  the  office 
door.  There  was  resolute  respectability  in  her 
blue  serge  suit,  brushed  shiny,  too  thin  for  De 
cember  wear.  She  carried  a  small  straw  telescope 

84 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


and  her  voice  sounded  capable  and  firm.    "Can  I 
go  right  up,  Mrs.  Bichards?" 

"Why,  I  suppose  you  may  as  well,  Irene. 
You've  come  for  Billiken?" 

"Yes.    I'm  taking  her  on  the  night-boat." 

"Wait,"  said  the  Irishman,  as  she  turned  to 
ward  the  stairs.  "Did  Ethel  tell  him?" 

"You  mean,  did  she  tell  Jerry  about — about  the 
baby?"  The  good  sister  of  the  erring  sister 
flushed  painfully.  "Not  that  I've  heard  of.  I 
guess  she  knows  better  than  that." 

"There  is  no  *  better  than  that,'  "  said  Michael 
Daragh,  sternly.  "There  is  nothing  better  than 
the  truth."  The  line  of  his  lean  jaw  was  salient. 

"If  I  can  once  get  her  respectably  married," 
said  Irene,  nippingly,  her  small  face  resolute,  "I 
won't  worry  about  what  she  tells  or  doesn't  tell. 
It 's  been  hard  enough  on  me,  I  can  tell  you ! ' '  She 
went  briskly  upstairs  and  they  heard  her  firm  clos 
ing  of  the  door. 

"You  see?"  the  matron  wanted  to  know. 

"I'm  fearing  we've  lost  the  fight,"  said  Michael 
Daragh. 

Jane  insisted  on  hope.  "Perhaps  she  did  tell 
him,  and  everything's  all  right,  but  she  had  no 
chance  to  see  Irene  and  explain !  Surely  you  won't 
let  her  take  Billiken  until  we  are  sure!" 

85 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


Then  the  front  door  opened  quietly  and  Ethel 
came  in  to  stand  before  them,  her  tragic  and  ac 
cusing  eyes  on  Jane.  "You  made  me  tell,"  she 
said.  "You  made  me!"  And  when  Jane  ran  to 
her,  questioning,  eager,  she  pushed  her  away, 
"It's  you!  It's  you  did  it!" 

Michael  Daragh  strode  to  her  and  put  a  steady 
ing  arm  about  her  shoulders.  "Child,  tell  us  the 
way  of  it." 

Her  teeth  were  chattering  and  her  face  seemed 
to  grow  whiter  and  whiter.  "I  told  him.  I  told 
him  everything.  I  kept  saying  to  myself  over  and 
over,  all  the  way  to  the  store,  just  what  she  told 
me" — she  flung  a  bruised  and  bitter  look  at  Jane 
— "  "  *I  must  love  him  more  than  I  want  him' — 
and  I  went  straight  up  to  him  at  his  counter,  right 
there  in  the  daytime.  He  was  selling  a  necktie  to 
a  fat  old  man  with  a  red  neck.  It  was  a  dark  blue 
tie  with  light  blue  spots  on  it. "  She  added  the  de 
tail  carefully  in  her  spent  little  voice.  "I  waited 
until  he  was  gone  and  then  I  told  Jerry.  He  just 
looked  at  me  and  looked  at  me,  and  made  me  say 
it  again,  and  then — then  he  just  walked  away  with 
out  looking  back.  I  had  to  go  to  work,  but  I 
watched  and  watched,  and  watched.  He  never 
came  back  to  his  counter.  Pretty  soon  I  just  got 
crazy.  I  went  over  and  asked.  They  said  he  was 

86 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


sick,  and  gone  home."  She  sagged  in  Michael 
Daragh's  hands  and  he  lifted  her  and  carried  her 
into  the  matron's  room,  the  matron  hurrying  be 
side  him. 

Then  Jane  Vail  sat  alone  in  the  ugly  office,  con 
templating  the  result  of  her  eloquence.  She  could 
hear  Ethel's  sobbing  and  the  matron's  sharp 
treble,  and  the  steady  and  rhythmic  flow  of  the 
Irishman's  voice.  She  rose  to  follow  them,  but 
the  closed  door  halted  her.  They  had  wanted  her 
to  do  this  thing,  to  do  the  thing  they  had  failed 
to  do,  and  she  had  done  it ;  and  now  they  shut  her 
away  while  they  strove  to  heal  where  she  had 
hurt. 

Why  had  she  done  it?  Why  had  she  come  at 
all?  Why  had  she  mixed  and  muddled  in  this  sor 
did  tangle  which  was  none  of  her  bright  business  ? 
And  why — chief  of  all  whys — had  she  rashly  and 
sentimentally  offered  to  give  up  her  holidays  at 
home  for  the  futile  endeavor  to  make  Christmas 
merry  for  these  miserable  girls? 

Rage  rose  in  her,  rage  at  herself,  rage  at  the 
sobbing,  tarnished  girlhood  in  there,  at  her  sharp 
sister,  at  the  matron,  at  the  zealot  who  had 
dragged  her  into  it  all.  Let  him  take  Emma  Ellis 
next  time.  This  was  her  work,  and  she — Jane 
Vail — belonged  in  the  world  of  clean  and  pretty 

87 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


things  and  in  that  world  she  would  stay.  She  de 
cided  against  undignified  flight;  she  would  wait 
for  Michael  Daragh  and  walk  home  with  him  to 
Mrs.  Hills'  boarding  house,  and  she  would  be  very 
civil  about  it  all,  but  she  would  make  it  clear,  even 
to  an  other-worldly  settlement  worker,  that  her 
brief  detour  into  this  sort  of  thing  was  finished; 
that  she  was  on  the  highway  again,  speeding  to 
ward  the  place  she  had  visioned  for  herself. 

Now  she  drove  her  mind  resolutely  away  from 
the  Agnes  Chatterton  Home,  to  the  Vermont  vil 
lage,  then  across  the  sea  .  .  .  Florence  ...  the 
old  palaces  .  .  .  the  Arno  .  .  .  the  little  tea  room 
in  the  Via  Tornabuoni  where  she  went  sometimes 
at  this  very  hour  .  .  .  little  heart-shaped  cakes 
with  green  icing —  Upstairs  three  babies  began 
to  scream  at  once,  harshly  and  hideously,  and  an 
opened  door  somewhere  at  the  rear  of  the  house 
confessed  to  cabbage  for  dinner,  and  the  present 
came  swiftly  and  unbeautifully  back.  It  came  back 
with  a  bang.  Jane  resolutely  set  herself  to  think 
the  thing  out  clearly.  If  the  matron  or  the  Irish 
man  had  persuaded  Ethel  to  divulge  her  dark 
young  past  to  her  suitor,  he  would  have  repudiated 
her  just  the  same;  therefore  she — Jane — might 
shake  off  her  mantle  of  guilty  responsibility.  And 
after  all,  bleak  as  life  looked  to  the  little  creature 

88 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


now,  still  sobbing  stormily  in  Mrs.  Richards'  room, 
wasn't  she  safer  than  she  would  be  married  to  her 
Jerry  with  that  stalking  secret? — " Whose  happi 
ness  resteth  upon  a  lie  is  as  a  spirit  in  prison." 
The  whole  world,  the  whole  godly,  gossiping,  fer 
reting  world,  would  have  conspired  together  to 
tell  him.  Now  she  climbed  nimbly  to  secure  con 
viction  in  the  eternal  justice  of  things.  The  girl 
had  gone  gallantly,  in  garish  daylight,  holding  her 
happiness  in  her  hand,  and  told  the  truth.  Now 
she  was  in  the  dust,  but  wouldn  't  it  all  come  right 
for  her  in  the  end  I  Wouldn 't  it  have  to  come  right 
for  her?  The  sense  of  helpless  misery  fell  away 
from  her  and  she  was  so  confident  of  coming  joy 
that  she  started  toward  the  closed  door  of  the 
matron's  room.  No;  she  would  not  go  in,  but  she 
was  warm  with  comfort.  It  seemed  close  and 
breathless  in  the  office  and  she  went  to  the  street 
door  and  opened  it  for  a  swallow  of  the  keen  win 
ter  air,  and  stood  out  upon  the  top  step,  looking 
down  into  the  dingy  thoroughfare.  There  was  a 
young  man,  half  a  block  away,  on  the  opposite  side. 
He  was  walking  slowly,  looking  at  the  numbers  on 
the  houses,  and  presently  he  looked  across  at  the 
Agnes  Chatterton  Home.  Then  he  stood  quite 
still,  staring  at  it. 

89 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Gladness  and  certainty  rose  in  Jane  and  she 
beckoned  to  him. 

He  came  over  very  slowly,  and  mounted  the 
steps  with  lagging  feet,  and  he  was  still  staring, 
his  eyes  rather  dazed. 

"Oh,"  said  Jane,  "I  think  I  know  who  you 
are!"  She  was  a  little  breathless  with  happy  ex 
citement.  " Aren't  you — I  don't  know  the  rest  of 
your  name,  but  aren't  you — Jerry?" 

"Yes,  ma'am,"  said  the  youth.  There  was  a 
close  color  harmony  about  him ;  his  jubilant  cravat 
picked  up  the  dominant  note  of  his  striped  silk 
shirt  and  the  royal  purple  of  his  hose  struck  it 
again,  an  octave  lower.  The  removal  of  his  velvet 
hat  disclosed  wide  and  flanging  ears  which  gave 
his  face  an  expression  of  quaint  comedy,  now  at 
variance  with  his  aghast  and  solemn  look. 

Jane's  bright  presence  there  on  that  dreary 
doorstep,  her  hailing  of  him,  her  knowledge  of  his 
identity,  seemed  to  awake  no  wonder  in  him.  He 
looked  as  if  he  had  finished  with  surprise ;  as  if 
nothing  could  ever  startle  him  again. 

"I  want  to  see  Ethel,"  he  said. 

"Yes!"  said  Jane,  gladly.    "Come!" 

She  left  him  in  the  correct  and  cheerless  little 
reception  room  and  flew  up  the  headlong  stairs 
and  into  Ethel's  room,  her  face  luminous.  The 

90 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


good  sister  was  just  finishing  her  packing  of  Bil 
liken 's  belongings  into  the  telescope  and  the  child, 
snug  in  tiny  sweater  and  knitted  cap,  watched  her 
absorbedly.  Jane  caught  her  up  without  a  word 
and  carried  her  out  of  the  room. 

"I'm  about  ready  to  go,"  the  young  woman 
called  after  her,  sharply.  "Please  don't  take  her 
things  off!" 

Jane  did  not  answer  her.  She  sped  down  the 
stairs  as  swiftly  and  easily  as  a  person  in  a  dream, 
and  opened  the  closed  door  boldly,  without  even  a 
knock,  and  marched  in,  Billiken  in  her  arms.  She 
felt  like  an  army  with  banners. 

Ethel's  first  fury  of  grief  had  spent  itself  and 
she  sat  leaning  limply  back,  her  eyes  closed, 
breathing  in  long,  quivering  sighs. 

"Look,"  cried  Jane,  "here's  Billiken!" 

Billiken  flung  herself  at  her  mother  with  a  lilt 
ing  squeal  of  joy,  and  Ethel's  eyes  opened  and  nar 
rowed  with  a  cold  and  appraising  scrutiny.  Her 
hands  twisted  together  in  her  lap;  she  seemed  to 
be  weighing  and  balancing.  At  length,  with  a  lit 
tle  brooding  cry,  she  caught  the  baby  in  her  arms. 

Michael  Daragh  smiled  sunnily  at  Jane,  but 
she  had  no  instant  to  spare  for  him  then.  She 
pulled  Ethel  to  her  feet.  "Come,"  she  said,  im- 

91 


JANE    JOURNEYS    ON 


periously.  "Come  and  bring  Billiken!"  She  led 
her  out  of  the  room. 

The  matron  and  the  Irishman  followed  them, 
wondering. 

Jane  was  guiding  the  girl,  her  face  buried 
against  the  baby's  woolen  cap.  "Look!"  she  said 
again,  at  the  door  of  the  dim  reception  room. 

Ethel  halted  on  the  threshold,  peering  through 
the  gathering  winter  dusk.  "Oh, — Jerry®"  she 
gasped,  uncertainly. 

The  young  man  from  the  Gent's  Furnishings 
strode  forward  to  meet  her,  his  eyes  on  her  blurred 
and  swollen  face.  "Say,  listen,"  he  began,  "say, 
listen — "  Then  his  gaze  dropped  to  the  child  in 
her  arms  and  grew  bleak,  and  Ethel  shrank  back 
and  away  from  him,  her  eyes  wide  and  terrified. 

It  seemed  to  Jane,  standing  there  in  the  ugly 
hall  of  the  Agnes  Chatterton  Home,  between  the 
sharp-visaged  matron  and  the  Irishman  who 
looked  like  Botticelli's  saint,  as  if  all  the  love  and 
pity  in  the  world  hung  by  a  hair  above  the  pit. 

It  was  a  new  and  unpleasing  thing  to  Billiken, 
to  find  cold  eyes  upon  her,  level,  unloving,  hostile 
eyes,  but  she  had  an  antidote.  Gazing  blithely 
back  at  him  with  the  wide  little  grin  which  had 
earned  her  the  name  of  "the  God  of  Things  as 
They  Ought  to  Be,"  she  held  out  her  arms  with  a 

92 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


gurgling  cry  and  flung  herself  at  the  young  man 
with  the  gay  cravat  as  she  had  flung  herself  at 
her  mother  two  minutes  before. 

The  hot  color  flooded  his  face,  his  freckles  were 
drowned  in  a  red  sea,  his  flanging  ears  were  crim 
son.  Suddenly,  gropingly,  he  reached  out  for  them 
both,  and  got  the  two  of  them  into  his  arms.  "It'll 
be  O.K., ' '  he  said,  huskily,  winking  hard.  ' '  It  '11  be 
O.K. !  Say,  listen,  I  got  it  all  figured  out!  They 
been  wantin'  me  to  go  to  the  Rochester  store  any 
way,  and  we  don't  know  a  livin'  soul  there!" 

They  went  away,  the  other  three,  and  left  .them 
there  together,  and  there  were  two  little  dabs  of 
color  on  the  matron's  high  cheekbones  and  her 
sharp  eyes  looked  oddly  dim.  "Well,"  she  said, 
"well — I  guess  that's  settled  right  enough.  And 
I  guess  we've  got  you  to  thank  for  it,  Miss  Vail." 

"We  have,  surely,  God  save  you  kindly,"  said 
Michael  Daragh,  and  his  face  had  what  Jane  called 
its  stained-glass-window  look. 

She  felt  very  flushed  and  humbled  under  tneir 
beaming  approbation.  "There's  only  her  own 
courage  to  thank!"  But  she  snatched  up  a  bit  of 
the  despised  decoration,  her  cheeks  scarlet.  "You 
know, — I'm  so  happy — so  gorgeously,  dizzily 
happy — I  can  hear  that  magenta-colored  paper 
joy-bell  ring  a  silvery  chime!" 


CHAPTER  VIII 

IT  was  November  when  Jane  made  her  exodus 
from  the  Vermont  village  and  her  entry  into 
New  York,  and  by  early  summer  she  had  writ 
ten  and  sold  three  one-act  plays  for  vaudeville 
which  yielded  plump  little  weekly  royalties  and 
gave  her  a  reputation  quite  out  of  proportion  to 
her  output  and  experience.  They  began  to  ad 
vertise  her  sketches  as  "different"  and  to  build 
up  a  vogue.  "So  and  So  in  a  Jane  Vail  act,"  said 
a  pretty  billboard,  and  Rodney  Harrison  gave 
himself  jocularly  proud  airs  as  her  discoverer  and 
sponsor. 

"I  see  clearly,"  said  Jane,  "that  I  must  call  you 
my  Fairy  God-brother ! ' ' 

"I  do  not  seem  to  crave  the  brother  effect,"  said 
Mr.  Harrison  deliberately,  before  he  gave  his  at 
tention  to  a  hovering  head  waiter.  He  was  dis 
tinctly  what  her  village  called  "not  a  marrying 
man/'  but  he  was  beginning  to  have  his  moments 
of  meaningful  look  and  word. 

"Well,  then,"  said  Jane,  after  agreeing  to  alli- 

94 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


gator  pear  salad, '  '  shall  we  say  Fairy  God-cousin  ? 
That's  a  gay  and  pleasing  relationship  without 
undue  responsibilities.  Will  that  do?" 

"That  will  do  for  the  present,"  said  Mr.  Harri 
son.  He  regarded  her  across  the  small  table  with 
perfectly  apparent  satisfaction.  Nothing  bucolic 
here ;  a  dark  and  gypsy  beauty  which  glowed  and 
kindled  beside  the  fainter  types  about  them,  a 
wholly  modish  smartness,  an  elusive  something  to 
which  he  could  not  put  a  name,  which  gave  him 
always  the  sense  of  glad  pursuit.  There  had  been 
in  his  early  attitude,  as  she  had  divined,  just  a 
trifle  of  the  King  and  the  Beggar  Maid,  the  Town 
Mouse  and  the  City  Mouse,  but  that  was  gone  now. 
She  knew  his  New  York  very  nearly  as  well  as  he 
did  himself  and  with  her  increased  activities  had 
come  decreased  dependence  on  him.  She  was 
either  so  gayly  busy  or  so  busily  gay  that  she  was 
able  to  accept  only  one  invitation  in  four,  which 
made  it  very  necessary  to  ask  her  early  and  often. 
He  was  a  wary  young  man,  Eodney  Harrison, 
urban  from  head  to  heel ;  marriage  had  not  entered 
into  his  calculations.  Yet  he  was  aware  of  his 
growing  fondness  and  approval,  his  growing  con 
viction  that  domesticity  with  Jane  Vail  need  not 
of  necessity  be  the  curbing  and  cloying  thing  he 
had  visioned. 

95 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


It  was  May  when  he  told  her  that  his  mother 
wanted  to  come  to  see  her,  and  it  was  the  follow 
ing  day  that  Jane  wrote  home  to  tell  them  she  was 
coming  to  Vermont  for  the  summer  months.  She 
wasn't  quite  ready  for  Eodney  Harrison's  mother 
to  call  on  her ;  she  wanted  a  little  time  and  a  little 
perspective,  and  she  knew  that  the  hour  had  struck 
for  her  to  go  back  and  put  a  firm  if  mournful  pe 
riod  to  the  affair  of  Marty  Wetherby.  There  had 
been  constantly  recurring  scoldings  by  mail  from 
Sarah  Farraday  and  Nannie  Slade  Hunter,  and, 
while  he  was  the  poorest  and  least  articulate  of 
correspondents,  his  stammering  letters  had  still 
achieved  a  pathos  of  their  own,  and  the  thing  was 
no  longer  to  be  shirked. 

So  she  said  good-by  at  the  boarding  house  to 
Mrs.  Hills  and  Emma  Ellis  and  Michael  Daragh 
and  at  the  station  to  Eodney  Harrison ;  and  went 
back  in  smart  triumph  with  a  wardrobe  trunk  full 
of  clever  clothes  and  the  latest  shining  model  in 
typewriters. 

They  were  out  in  force  to  meet  her;  her  Aunt 
Lydia  Vail,  happily  tearful  and  trembling;  Nan 
nie  Slade  Hunter  and  Edward  E.  with  the  amaz 
ingly  enlarged  and  humanized  Teddy-bear,  in  their 
new  roadster;  Sarah  Farraday,  a  little  thinner 
after  her  hard-driven  winter  of  teaching ;  and  Mar> 

96 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


tin  Wetherby,  panting  a  little  even  in  his  thin  sum 
mer  suit,  removing  his  handsome  Panama  to  mop 
a  steaming  brow. 

The  first  evening  was  all  Miss  Lydia  's,  save  that 
Sarah  was  coming  over  later  to  stay  the  night,  and 
again  Jane  sat  in  the  rosewood  and  mahogany  din 
ing  room,  served  by  the  middle-aged  maid  who  did 
not  know  that  there  was  a  servant  problem,  and 
ate  the  reliable  stock  supper — the  three  slices  of 
pink  boiled  ham  on  the  ancient  and  honorable  plat 
ter  of  blue  willow  pattern  ware,  the  small  pot  of 
honey,  the  two  kinds  of  preserves,  the  hot  biscuit, 
the  delicate  cups  of  not-too-strong,  uncolored 
Japan  tea,  the  sugar  cookies,  the  pale  custard. 

Miss  Vail  had  missed  her  niece  acutely,  as  she 
would  have  missed  a  lovely  elm  from  the  street  or 
the  silhouette  of  the  mountain  which  she  got  from 
her  bedroom  window,  but  she  had  wanted  the  dear 
girl  to  be  happy,  and  she  clearly  was  happy,  brim- 
mingly,  radiantly,  and  she  had  gone  down  to  her 
twice  for  merry  and  bewildered  little  visits  and 
had  come  thankfully  home  again. 

She  beamed  at  her  now  across  the  table  and  in 
sisted,  as  of  old,  that  she  eat  two  of  the  three  slices 
of  pink  ham  shaved  to  a  refined  thinness,  and  then 
they  went  into  the  pretty  parlor  and  visited  cozily 
until  the  little  spinster's  head  began  to  jerk  for- 

97 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


ward  in  the  pauses,  and  Sarah  Farraday,  who  had 
waited  conscientiously  until  nine  o'clock,  ap 
peared.  Then  Miss  Lydia  went  upstairs  to  take 
off  her  plump,  snug  things  and  slip  into  her  flan 
nelette  nightdress — the  nights  were  still  what  she 
called  "pretty  sharp,"  and  get  into  bed  and  "read 
until  she  got  sleepy." 

"Hannah  says  she  sneaks  in  every  night  and 
snaps  off  the  light  after  she's  sound  asleep,"  said 
Sarah.  "It's  a  mercy  she  doesn't  have  to  use  a 
lamp, — she'd  have  burnt  the  house  down  years 
ago." 

"She  *  doesn't  sleep,'  "  said  Jane,  looking  ten 
derly  after  her,  plodding  plumply  up  the  stairs, 
"she  'just  rests  her  eyes  for  a  moment.'  Sally, 
let's  go  up  to  my  room  and  have  a  regular,  old- 
time  talk-fest!" 

So  they  went  up  the  narrow  stairs  with  their 
arms  entwined  about  each  other  and  took  off  their 
dresses  and  slipped  into  kimonos  and  let  down 
their  hair,  but  they  found  a  strange  and  baffling 
constraint. 

"Sally,  dear/'  Jane  determinedly  broke  the 
spell,  "what's  the  silly  matter  with  us?" 

The  blonde  music  teacher's  eyes  filled  up  with 
her  ready  tears.  ' '  It 's— -y ou  Ve  been  away  so  long, 

98 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


and  we've  drifted  so  far  apart.  .  .  .  Your  life — 
your  wonderful  life " 

"Now,  Sarah  Farraday,"  her  friend  pounced 
upon  her,  "after  the  miles  upon  miles  of  letters 
I've  written  you,  do  you  dare  to  feel  that  you  don't 
know  as  much  about  my  life  as  I  do  I  Viper-that- 
bites-the-hand-that-writes-to-it !  Why,  I  could 
have  done  another  playlet — two — in  the  time  I've 
taken  to  tell  you  everything ! ' ' 

"You've  been  marvelous  about  letters,"  Sarah 
admitted  with  a  grateful  sniff,  "but " 

"And  what's  more — and  this  admits  of  no  argu 
ment — next  winter  you're  coming  down  to  me  for 
a  month  of  giddy  gamboling  and  to  soak  your  soul 
in  symphonies  and  operas!" 

Sarah  Farraday  gave  a  little  gasp  and  her  thin 
cheeks  flushed.  "Oh,  my  dear,  you're  a  lamb  to 
think  of  it,  but  of  course  I  couldn't.  It's  wonder 
ful,  just  even  to  think  about  it,  but  it  couldn't  pos 
sibly  happen." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because,"  said  Sarah,  doggedly,  "it's  much 
too  good  to  be  true." 

"Now  that,"  said  Jane  sternly,  "is  a  wicked 
and  immoral  remark!  There  is  nothing  too  good 
to  be  true,  and  it's  blasphemy  to  say  so." 

"Oh,  well  .  .  .  of  course,  with  yo u — "  She  left 

99 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


her  sentence  trailing  and  let  her  thin  hands  fall 
in  her  lap  limply,  palm  upward  and  stared  at  Jane. 
Her  dark  hair  was  shimmering  and  floating  about 
her  and  her  dark  eyes  were  pools  of  light. 
"  Janey,"  she  leaned  toward  her  and  spoke  wist 
fully,  "are  you  really  as  impossibly  happy  as  yon 
look!" 

"Happier,"  said  Jane,  promptly.  She  began 
to  brush  her  dusky  mane  with  long  and  sweeping 
strokes.  "Still  doing  this  a  hundred  and  twenty 
times  a  night,  Sally,  no  matter  at  what  scandalous 
hour  I  come  in." 

But  the  other  persisted  with  sudden  sapience. 
"I  mean,  are  you  really  as  happy  as  you  act,  or 
are  you  just — gay?" 

* '  Both, ' '  said  Jane,  stoutly.  ( ' '  Sixty- two,  sixty- 
three,  sixty-four — )  I've  had  a  bright  and  shin 
ing  time,  work  and  play,  with  my  feet  very  much 
on  the  earth, — or  the  pavements,  rather.  I'm  sat 
isfied,  Sally." 

"But  oh,"  said  Sarah,  forlornly,  "you  said  you 
wouldn't  be  really  'going  away'  from  us,  but  you 
have!  Millions  of  miles  away — a  whole  world 
away,  Jane!  You've  proved  your  point, — suc 
ceeded  beyond  our  wildest  dreams " 

"Not  beyond  my  wildest  dreams,  old  dear, "  said 
her  best  friend  with  happy  impudence.  "You 

100 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


were  more  modest  for  me  than  I  was  for  myself!" 
" — beyond  our  wildest  dreams,"  Sarah  repeated 
stubbornly,  "and  you  can  carry  on  your  work  just 
as  well  here,  now,  and  wouldn  't  it  be  the  loveliest, 
most  natural  thing  in  the  world  for  you  to  stay  at 
home  f  Jane — poor  old  Marty ! ' '  She  ran  to  Jane 
and  flung  her  arms  emotionally  about  her. 

"Sally,  there's  no  more  chance " 

But  the  other  cut  in,  panic-stricken,  "Oh, — don't 
make  up  your  mind  now — to-night!  Wait!  Just 
spend  the  summer  in  the  dear  old  way,  as  we've 
always  done,  and  see  if  you  don't  fit  right  into 

your  old  niche  again,  with — with " 

"With  a  steadily  fattening  Marty,"  said  Jane, 
bright-cheeked,  "and  a  hot,  pink  nursery  with  a 
fat  and  well-oiled  Kewpie?" 
"Jane,"  said  Sarah  coldly,  "there  are  some 

things  too  sacred  to " 

"To  be  anything  but  decently  and  sanely  frank 
about,"  said  Jane.  "My  child,  the  story  isn't  go 
ing  to  have  that  particular  happy  ending  for  which 
you  pant.  You  see  all  my  life  in  a  proscribed  pat 
tern.  Like  a  sentimental  ballad's  second  verse 
.  .  .  back  to  the  grassy  meadows  .  .  .  childhood's 
happy  hours  again.  .  .  .  Once  again  he  sang — 


1  For  you  are  my  li — hittel — sw — heet — heart.'  " 

101 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


"Then,"  said  Sarah  with  conviction,  " it 's  either 
the  man-you-met-on-the-boat,  or  that  Irish  mis 
sionary  person!" 

Jane  laughed.  "Wasn't  it  amazing  how  good 
old  Sally,  herself  conceived  for  celibacy,  yearned 
to  mate  tip  every  one  within  her  ken?  Nature's 
little  way  of  evening  up,  perhaps;  if  Sarah  her 
self  was  to  carry  on  the  race  chain,  was  she  to 
make  it  up  by  tireless  toil  in  urging  others  on  I 
" Sally,  Michael  Daragh,  as  I've  tried  to  make 
clear,  is  an  over-soul.  His  large  feet  lug  his  large 
frame  about  on  this  terrestrial  sphere,  but  in  real 
ity  he  isn  't  here  at  all.  He  is  quite  literally  absent 
from  the  body  and  present  with  the  Lord.  As  I 
told  you  before, — a  large  body  of  man  entirely 
surrounded  by  conscience.  No  more  aware  of  me, 
as  a  woman,  than  he  is  of  Emma  Ellis — and  you 
don't  get  the  force  of  that" — she  grinned  shame 
lessly — "unless  you  know  Emma." 

"Then,  how  about — the  other  one?" 

Jane  considered,  picking  and  choosing  her  words 
as  she  loved  to  do.  "Well,  Michael  feels  I  am  too 
much  of  the  world,  Eodney  that  I  am  too  little ; 
Michael  is  above  me,  spiritually  speaking,  and 
Eodney  is  beneath — which  would,  of  course,  make 
him  much  the  pleasanter  person  to  live  with! 
Eodney  is  thoroughly  and  comfortably  this- 

102 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


worldly;  Michael  is — other-worldly!  This  is  the 
truth  of  the  matter,  Sally;  Eodney  Harrison  is 
keen  about  my  neat  little  brain  and  Michael 
Daragh  is  gravely  concerned  about  my  soul,  but 
I  think  neither  one  is  interested  in  my  heart!" 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  threw  a  gorgeous 
robe  about  her.  "Come  along,  Sally!  Let's  go 
down  and  make  some  chocolate!  I've  come  to 
crave  nocturnal  nourishment,  and  much  as  I  adore 
talking  about  myself  I've  really  had  enough  of  the 
topic  for  to-night.  How  many  pupils  have  you 
now?  And  how  near  is  the  baby-grand?" 

She  stayed  three  months  at  home,  tapping 
briskly  at  her  typewriter  in  the  mornings  and  giv 
ing  her  afternoons  and  evenings  to  the  old  innocu 
ous  routine,  and  it  was  said  of  her  that  she  had 
changed  and  gotten  citified,  of  course,  but  seemed 
very  much  interested  in  everything  and  every 
body,  and  many  were  the  placid  hours  in  the  pink 
nursery,  the  drives  with  the  Edward  B.  Hunters 
in  the  new  roadster,  the  teas  in  the  burlapped 
studio  with  Sarah  Farraday,  the  meetings  of  the 
Ladies'  Aid  and  the  Tuesday  Club  where  she  gave 
gay  little  talks  and  readings  and  vague  old  ladies 
asked  her  gently  if  she  was  still  going  on  with  her 
literary  work. 

103 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


The  only  radical  change  was  Martin  Wetherby, 
whose  case  came  up  for  decision  at  once,  in  spite 
of  the  sage  counsels  of  the  Teddy-bear's  father. 

The  second  evening  at  home  Miss  Lydia  Vail 
had  risen  flutteringly  and  left  them  alone  on  the 
porch  in  the  soft  dusk,  and  at  once  he  had  plunged 
to  his  doom.  There  was  no  serene  confidence 
about  him  this  time,  no  snatching  her  into  a  short- 
breathed  embrace;  he  was  rather  pathetically 
humble  before  her  new  poise  and  achievements, 
pleading,  desperate. 

" Marty,  dear,"  said  Jane  unhappily,  "I  don't 
want  to  be  unsympathetic,  but  indeed  I  don  't  think 
I'm  ruining  your  life !  You're  so  nice  and  young, 
and  you're  doing  famously  at  the  bank!  Oh,  I 
know  it's  just  because  you've  held  to  the  idea  for 
so  long — and  so  many  other  people  have,  and  made 
it  seem — settled.  It's  just  your  habit — not  your 
heart,  that's  aching!" 

But  in  spite  of  this  cheering  reassurance  she  had 
to  admit  to  Sarah  that  Marty  continued  to  droop 
at  the  corners,  and  to  have,  in  spite  of  the  assist 
ant  cashiership,  a  look  of  shaken  confidence.  His 
mother,  that  former  arranger  of  little  gatherings 
for  the  young  people  and  dispenser  of  light  re 
freshments,  treated  Jane  with  coolness,  and  had 
her  adherents  here  and  there  in  the  village. 

104 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


Jane  went  back  to  New  York  the  first  of  Sep 
tember  and  sold  immediately  the  one-act  play  she 
had  written  during  the  summer,  and  was  engulfed 
in  the  business  of  putting  it  on,  and  presently 
Eodney  Harrison  brought  her  a  well-known  actor 
from  the  legitimate  who  wanted  to  rest  and  make 
a  corpulent  salary  in  the  two-a-day,  and  she  suc 
ceeded  in  fitting  him  to  a  sketch.  It  brought  her 
fresh  laurels  and  a  larger  audience  and  a  better 
royalty,  and  she  told  herself  stoutly  (as  Kodney 
Harrison  had  first  told  her)  that  it  didn't  matter 
in  the  least  that  he  wanted  a  good  deal  of  broad 
and  rather  edgy  comedy  and,  failing  to  get  it  from 
her,  had  put  it  in  himself,  and,  therefore,  had  his 
name  on  the  program  as  joint  author.  Every  one 
would  know  that  the  clean  and  clever  little  story 
was  her  own  and  the  edginess  his.  She  took  great 
pains  to  write  this  to  Sarah  and  to  repeat  it  often 
to  herself  and  she  glowed  under  Eodney  Harri 
son's  pride  in  her  and  the  cordial  respect  of  the 
booking  offices  and  the  dazzled  admiration  of  the 
boarding  house. 

But  one  humid  evening,  when  all  the  vigor  and 
backbone  seemed  to  have  melted  out  of  the  world, 
Michael  Daragh  asked  her  to  ride  with  him  on  the 
top  of  the  bus  to  Grant's  Tomb  and  walk  back 
along  the  river,  and  presently  they  sat  down  on 

105 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


the  damp  grass  like  a  shop  girl  and  her  gentleman 
friend  and  looked  off  across  the  river,  shining  in 
the  moonlight,  and  after  a  silence  Jane  said  pleas 
antly,  with  her  new  admixture  of  aloofness  and 
indulgence,  "Well,  Michael  Daragh,  I  know  you 
haven't  marched  me  here  merely  to  revel  in  the 
beauty  of  the  evening.  It's  more  a  case  of — *  thank 
you,'  said  the  oysters,  '  we've  had  a  pleasant  run!' 
You  may  as  well  begin.  I'm  feeling  very  peaceful 
and  very  prosperous.  Who  is  the  poor  thing 
you're  concerned  with  now?" 

And  the  big  Irishman,  a  dull  flush  mounting  in 
his  lean  cheeks,  faced  her  squarely.  "The  poor 
thing  I'm  concerned  with  now,  God  save  you 
kindly,  is  yourself,  Jane  Vail!" 

She  hadn't  any  words  in  that  first  dazed  mo 
ment.  She  sat  staring  at  him,  her  great  eyes  wide. 

"It's  yourself,  surely,"  he  said,  sternly  ,"the 
way  you've  wandered  from  the  high  road  and  lost 
yourself  in  a  bog." 

She  was  still  too  startled  and  bewildered  to  be 
angry.  "I  haven't  the  vaguest  idea  what  you 
mean.  Have  you?" 

"I  have,  indeed,  Jane  Vail.  The  thing  you've 
just  written  and  sold,  now, — are  you  proud  in  your 
heart  of  it?" 

"Certainly  I  am,"  she  said  stoutly,  her  voice 

106 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


beginning  to  warm  with  resentment.  "It  isn't  a 
classic,  of  course,  but  it's  a  thoroughly  workman 
like,  snappy  little  act,  sure  to  get  over,  and " 

He  shook  his  head.  "Lost  in  the  bog  yon  are, 
and  sinking  deeper  every  day." 

"Sinking,  my  good  Michael?  If  you'll  read 
this  week's  Variety  you'll  find  there  are  those 
who  talk  about  my  phenomenal  rise!  I  loathe 
saying  things  like  that  about  myself,  but  you  make 
me  do  it,  in  decent  self-defense.  It's  simply  that 
you  don't  understand  these  things — that  you're 
looking  at  them  from  the  wrong  angle."  She 
talked  on,  angrily,  defensively,  but  inwardly  she 
was  feeling  attacked  and  abused  and  crushed. 
There  had  been  nothing  but  praise  and  congratu 
lation  and  rejoicing  now  for  ten  months,  and  this 
shabby  settlement  worker  dared —  "I'm  sure  you 
mean  to  be  very  kind,"  her  voice  was  ice  and  vel 
vet,  "but  I'm  afraid  you've  got  rather  in  the  way 
of  lecturing  young  women,  haven't  you?  And  I 
really  think  you  might  save  your  admonitions  and 
exhortations  for  those  who  need  and  want  them. 
Personally,  I'm  entirely  satisfied  with  the  way 
I'm  getting  on." 

"  'Getting  on,'  yes,  God  forgive  you,"  he  said 
mournfully,  "and  that's  all  you're  doing,  Jane 
Vail!" 

107 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


"I  consider  you  incapable  of  judging  a  matter 
like  this,"  said  Jane  with  cool  disdain.  "Yon  see 
life  always  through  a  stained-glass  window  and  it 
gives  you  distorted  values.  What  do  you  mean, 
— only  'getting  on'?" 

"Wasn't  it  yourself  told  me  what  you  said  to 
your  friend  back  in  the  village — that  you  were 
'going  on'?  Woman  dear,"  the  purling  brogue 
dropped  an  octave,  "there's  the  wide  world  of 
difference  between  the  two!  'Getting  on'  you  are 
surely,  the  way  your  name  screams  from  the  bill 
boards  and  your  bank  balance  fattens  like  a  stalled 
ox,  but  are  you  'going  on,'  Jane  Vail?  Are  yon 
'  going  on '  ?  Woman,  dear, ' '  the  purling  brogue — 
"the  rare,  high  places  yon  can  climb  if  yon  will? 
Or  will  you  stop  content  with  the  pavement,  the 
likes  of  you  that  was  made  for  the  mountain 
peaks?  Are  yon  going  on,  I  say?  Answer  me, 
Jane  Vail!" 

But  instead,  with  flashing  eyes  and  scorching 
cheeks  she  took  leave  of  him,  requesting  him  curtly 
not  to  follow,  and  walked  alone  to  the  Drive  and 
hailed  a  bus,  and  sat  staring  darkly  ahead  of 
her  as  it  jolted  and  swayed  down  the  long  blocks 
to  Washington  Square. 

When  Michael  Daragh  came  down  to  breakfast 
next  day  he  found  the  dining  room  in  a  state  of 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


excited  conjecture.  Miss  Vail,  dressed  for  a  jour 
ney,  had  roused  Mrs.  Hills  at  six  in  the  morning 
to  say  that  she  was  going  out  of  town  for  several 
weeks,  and  had  immediately  driven  off  in  a  taxi 
with  her  handbag  and  suitcase,  her  steamer  trunk 
and  her  typewriter. 


CHAPTER  IX 

NEVEETHELESS,  when  Emma  Ellis  came 
in  to  luncheon,  a  little  early,  the  third  day 
following,  she  espied  at  Michael  Daragh's 
place  a  letter  with  a  Boston  postmark,  addressed 
in  a  firm,  small  hand  she  knew.  She  was  the  only 
person  in  the  room  and  she  had  time  to  examine  it 
thoroughly,  even  as  to  thickness,  before  Mrs.  Hills 
came  in.  It  happened  that  there  were  mail  deliv 
eries  just  before  the  three  meal  times  and  it  was 
the  boarding-house  keeper's  guileless  custom  to 
sort  and  distribute  letters  at  the  table,  thus  sav 
ing  a  wearisome  climb  and  much  pedestrianism 
through  long  halls. 

"Well,  I've  got  a  line  from  Jane  and  I'm  free 
to  say  I'm  relieved.  I  was  afraid  she  was  sick  or 
something,  rushing  off  like  that,  rousing  me  out 
of  a  sound  sleep  at  six  in  the  morning,  just  saying 
she  was  going  out  of  town.  /  supposed,  of  course, 
she  was  going  home  to  her  Aunt  Lydia  Vail/' 

"Didn't  she?" 

"No,  she  didn't."  Mrs.  Hills  took  the  note  out 

110 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


of  her  apron  pocket  and  consulted  it.  "No,  she's 
going  to  Maine.  Foot'n  alone.  Says  she  needs 
quiet  for  some  special  work." 

"Mr.  Daragh  has  something  from  her,  too." 
Emma  Ellis  stood  behind  the  Irishman's  chair, 
her  pale  eyes  lapping  up  the  inscription. 

"No!"  said  Mrs.  Hills,  advancing  with  interest, 
frank  and  unashamed.  ' '  You  don 't  say !  "Well,  he 
has!  Sure's  you're  a  foot  high!  Well,  now,  that 
beats  me!" 

Emma  Ellis  tucked  in  her  lips  in  a  way  she  had 
before  making  a  certain  type  of  remark.  "It  is 
rather  strange.  .  .  .  They  were  out  walking  in  the 
evening,  and  in  the  morning  she  left,  precipi 
tately." 

"  'Tis  kinder  queer,"  Mrs.  Hills  clucked. 
" Couldn't  have  quarreled  or  anything — never 
paid  enough  attention  to  each  other  for  that. ' ' 

"Oh,"  said  Emma  Ellis  in  a  hushed  voice, 
"don't  you  think  Miss  Vail  has  always  devoted 
a  great  deal  of  attention  to  Mr.  Daragh?" 

"Well,  Jane's  a  great  one  to  make  up  to  folks 
and  be  friendly;  always  was,  as  a  child.  I  can 
remember  her,  four  years  old,  after  her  folks  died 
and  she  came  to  live  with  Miss  Lydia.  Wasn't 
afraid  of  anything  or  anybody,  ever.  Used  to 
slip  out  and  run  off  down  Main  Street  after  a  ped- 

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JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


dler  or  a  gypsy  or  anybody  she  took  a  fancy  to. 
But — "  she  came  back  into  the  present — "Mr. 
Daragh 's  been  kinder  queer  these  last  two,  three 
days.  But  then,  f  ar 's  that  goes,  he 's  always  queer. 
Oddest  mortal  I  ever  met  up  with  in  all  my  born 
days.  Odder 'n  Adam's  off  ox." 

' ' If  it  is  odd,"  said  the  Settlement  worker,  dull 
color  flooding  her  sallow  skin,  "for  a  man  to  turn 
his  back  on  greed  and  gain  and  devote  his  life  to 
altruism " 

"Now,  now,"  said  the  boarding-house  keeper, 
pacifically,  "you've  no  call  to  take  me  up  like  that. 
Land  knows  I  set  a  great  store  by  Mr.  Daragh,  if 
he  is  Irish  as  the  pigs.  Never  had  a  human  being 
under  my  roof  that  was  easier  to  suit  and  made 
less  fuss,  but  he's  queer  and  I'd  say  it  on  my*dying 
bed!" 

The  other  woman  stood  looking  down  at  Jane 
Vail's  pretty  letter  which  managed,  in  spite  of 
the  plain,  creamy  envelope  and  the  many  alien 
hands  through  which  it  had  passed,  to  retain  a 
startling  individuality,  and  she  spoke  in  the  little 
smothered  voice  which  was  her  proclamation  of 
intense  feeling.  "If — she — with  the  life  she  leads 
— has — has  disturbed  Mr.  Daragh " 

"Now,  then,  you  look  here,"  said  the  Vermont 
villager  with  sudden  sharpness,  "I  guess  her  life  is 

112 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


about  as  important  as  anybody  else's  I  might 
name !  I  guess  if  Mr.  Daragh  's  '  disturbed, '  as  you 
call  it,  it's  no  worse  for  him  than  it's  been  for 
others.  My  land,  Jane  Vail  could  of  had  her  choice 
of  the  town,  where  she  comes  from.  There's  four 
wanted  her,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  and  they 
say  Martin  Wetherby  (Wetherby  Eidge  is  named 
for  his  family — they  go  back  to  Revolutionary 
days)  never  will  get  over  it.  And  I  guess  that 
Mr.  Harrison  that  rolls  up  here  in  taxis  and  limou 
sines  is  sitting  up  and  taking  notice,  sure's  gun's 
iron!  And  if  Mr.  Michael  Daragh " 

"Sh  . -  .  ."  said  Emma  Ellis. 

The  big  Irishman  came  into  the  room,  graver 
even  than  usual,  but  his  eyes  lighted  warmly  at 
sight  of  the  missive  at  his  place.  He  nodded  to 
the  watching  women,  tore  it  open  and  read  it 
swiftly,  and  as  he  read  the  gladness  spread  and 
deepened  in  his  face. 

"I  had  a  letter  from  Jane,  too,"  said  Mrs.  Hills, 
seating  herself.  "  Going  to  Maine  for  some  spe 
cial  work  she's  got  to  do." 

"Yes,"  said  Michael  Daragh.  "Special  work, 
indeed."  He  folded  the  letter  and  put  it  back  in 
his  pocket,  and  the  table  filled  up  with  the  other 
members  of  the  household,  the  music  students  and 
the  school  teachers  and  the  elderly  concert-going 

113 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


ladies  in  their  staid  silks  .  .  .  all  the  sound  and 
sensible  persons  whom  the  missing  boarder  made 
so  drab  and  colorless  by  her  glowing  presence. 
He  smiled  sunnily  at  Emma  Ellis  and  was  aston 
ished  to  see  tears  in  her  light  eyes,  but  he  was 
used  to  tears  and  woes  and  secret  sorrows,  so  he 
smiled  again  and  more  convincingly  and  went 
sturdily  on  with  his  meal.  When  he  was  alone  in 
his  bare  and  austere  room  on  the  top  floor  he 
took  out  Jane's  letter  and  read  it  again,  slowly 
and  with  thankful  care. 

I've  decided  to  forgive  you,  Michael  Daragh,  it 
began,  but  it  takes  a  bit  of  doing !  It 's  easy  enough 
to  forgive  any  one  for  being  in  the  wrong;  that's 
a  really  pleasant  and  soothing  sensation;  but  to 
pardon  you  for  being  in  the  right — that's  taken 
me  all  these  hours !  I  said  that  you  always  saw 
life  through  a  stained-glass  window  and  that  it 
gave  you  distorted  values,  didn't  I?  That  was 
temper,  pure  and  simple.  You  were  perfectly 
right  to  wail  like  one  of  your  own  Banshees  be 
cause  the  likes  of  me — once  content  when  the  pale 
shadow  of  Pegasus  passed  her  by — is  become  an 
ink-spattered,  carbon-grimed  gold  digger!  Ten 
months  ago,  shivering  and  quivering  over  "ONE 
CROWDED  HOUR,  ' '  I  cowered  back  in  my  semi-occa 
sional  taxicab  and  watched  the  meter  with  a  creep 
ing  scalp.  .  .  .  Now  I  can  ride  from  Yonkers  to 

114 


JANE   JOUBNEYS    ON 


the  Square  and  admire  the  scenery  all  the  way. 
But  this  isn't  what  I  intended  to  do.  It's  been 
warm,  human,  jolly  sort  of  work,  knitting  up  the 
spatted  broker  in  the  box  to  the  newsboy  in  the 
gallery  and  I've  adored  it,  but  I've  lost  my  way, 
Michael  Daragh.  It  isn  't  what  I  intended  to  do ; 
it  isn't  what  I  intended  to  be;  the  dew  is  drying 
on  my  dreams  and  my  soul  shrieks  S.O.S. ! 

For  the  first  time  in  my  snug,  smug  life  I've  had 
large  chunks  of  truth  told  me;  I  didn't  like  it.  I 
don't  enjoy  it  even  yet,  but  I've  arrived  at  the 
decent  stage  of  gratitude,  Michael  Daragh. 
Thank  you — and  good-by.  Shall  I  send  you  bulle 
tins  of  my  pilgrim  progress!  I'm  off  to  a  lean, 
clean  island  in  Maine,  to  live  on  eight  dollars  a 
week  and  snare  back  the  thing  I  lost. 

JANE  VAIL. 

Thereafter,  Mrs.  Hills  and  Emma  Ellis  were  to 
see  and  to  marvel  over  the  creamy  buff  envelopes 
which  came  to  the  Irishman,  now  thin,  now  thick, 
postmarked  in  Maine,  often  only  two  or  three  days 
apart,  never  less  frequently  than  once  a  week. 
The  boarding-house  keeper  had  her  own  pleasant 
little  note,  occasionally,  and  Emma  Ellis  had  three 
conscientious  picture  postcards,  but  it  was  to  Mi 
chael  Daragh  that  the  letters  came  in  a  steady 
stream. 

" Mark  my  words,"  said  Mrs.  Hills,  " there's 

115 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


nothing  in  it.  My  land,  he 's  as  offhand  about  'em 
as  if  they  were  circulars,  and  I  don't  believe  he 
answers  one  in  six." 

"Yet  she  continues  to  write  him  constantly," 
said  Emma  Ellis. 

"Well,  if  she  does,  it's  her  business,  that's  all 
I've  got  to  say,"  said  the  older  woman,  danger 
ously.  "Jane  Vail  never  ran  after  anybody  yet 
and  I  don't  believe  she's  going  to  begin  now.  He 
says — and  she  says — she's  doing  some  special 
work,  and  I  suppose  maybe  he's  advising  her 
about  it." 

"I've  never  understood  before  that  Mr.  Daragh 
was  a  literary  authority,"  said  the  Settlement 
worker  in  her  little,  smothered  voice. 

"Well,  I'm  free  to  say  it  beats  me.  But  all  I 
know  is,  Jane  Vail's  nobody's  fool." 

And  Michael  Daragh,  meanwhile,  read  his  let 
ters  in  his  room,  monklike  in  its  simplicity,  three 
times,  and  then  he  tore  them  up,  quickly,  the  line 
of  his  lean  jaw  salient.  The  second  one  to  come 
had  been  dated  at  six  in  the  morning,  on  the  wharf 
at  Bath,  and  ran 

I'm  shivering,  Michael  Daragh, — shivering  in 
September!  The  incredible  freshness  of  this 
morning,  the  bracing  miracle  of  cold !  I  left  Bos- 

116 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


ton  on  the  night  boat  and  the  stewardess  rapped 
me  firmly  up  at  three-thirty  to  see  the  sun  rise.  I 
stayed  stubbornly  in  my  berth,  at  first,  but  pres 
ently  a  length  of  Quaker  gray  sky  interlined  with 
faintest  rose  brought  me  to  my  elbow  and  then 
to  the  window.  The  little  steamer  was  feeling  her 
cautious  way  up  a  river  of  dull  silver  between 
banks  of  taupe  and  mauve.  After  a  moment  I 
could  pick  up  objects  here  and  there  in  somber 
silhouette — a  windmill,  a  battered  barn,  crude 
landings  reaching  out  to  graze  the  boat.  In  that 
tremulous  moment  before  the  break  of  day,  shore 
and  stream  and  sky  melted  and  ran  together  in 
the  liquid  pattern  of  an  abalone  shell.  Then,  sud 
denly,  the  sun  shot  up  over  the  rim  of  the  world, 
'  *  out  of  the  gates  of  the  day, ' '  a  clear  persimmon, 
gorgeous  as  a  Chinese  lantern,  and  the  realm  of 
faery  warmed  into  reality, — river  and  river  banks, 
houses  and  little  hummocky  hills. 

I  must  walk  now  to  keep  warm.  There  is  a 
young  old  woman  in  shabby  corduroy  footing  it 
briskly  to  and  fro,  who  may  be  going  to  take  my 
toy  steamer, — tossing  a  mane  of  smoke  and  champ 
ing  its  bit  at  the  upper  wharf — and  I'm  going  to 
speak  to  her. 

7  A.M.     Going  up  the  River. 

She  was  taking  the  down  boat,  but  she  gave  her 

valuable  experience  to  me.     She  asked  me  for 

which  island  I  was  heading,  and  when  I  said  I 

didn't  know, — that  I  meant  to  line  them  up  and 

117 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


say,  —  "My-mother-told-me-to-take-ZTws,  — "  she 
said, — "Oh,  then  do  take  Three  Meadows!"  She 
has  been  there  all  summer,  and  she  thinks  I  can 
board  at  the  same  place — with  Angelique  Laridean 
Gillespie,  "Mis'  Deac'n  Gillespie."  She  is  Ca 
nadian-French  and  the  only  woman  on  the  island 
who  can  cook  any  other  way  than  frying.  The  bad 
little  hotel  is  closing.  She  was  so  merry  and  foot 
loose  and  free,  Michael!  That's  exactly  the  sort 
of  old  maid  I  mean  to  be 

"Love  of  roving  foot  and  joy  of  roving  eye " 


We  have  been  wriggling  up  a  cunning  little 
river,  bumping  into  clumsy  landings  here  and 
there  and  now  the  porter-purser-steward-news- 
agent-cabin-boy-and-guide  says  the  next  one  is 
mine. 

Wish  me  luck,  Michael  Daragh! 

J.  V. 

Three  Meadows,  Maine, 

Friday  Afternoon. 

It  would  be  tea  time  anywhere  else,  Michael 
Daragh,  but  it  gives  no  tea  here.  Eating  between 
meals  is  deplored  and  is  referred  to  as  "piecing." 
Will  you  ask  Mrs.  Hills  to  express  my  tea  basket 
and  two  cups  ? 

This  is  a  lamb  of  an  island.  The  land  lifts  away 
to  low  hills  and  the  village  has  splashed  a  little 
way  up  on  the  sides.  A  curtain  of  filmy  fog  has 
just  risen  clear  of  the  treetops  and  everything  is 

118 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


graciously  gray.  No  one  ever  comes  so  late  in  the 
season  and  this  awful,  little  hotel  is  closing, — it 
ought  to  be  closed  and  sealed  forever.  Everything 
about  the  tiny  town  is  refreshing.  A  citizen  fin 
ished  up  a  game  of  checkers  before  he  went  down 
to  consider  the  case  of  my  trunk.  Then  it  took  him 
some  time  to  wake  up  his  horse,  which  did  a  be 
wildered  Lady  Macbeth  up  the  street.  I  was  walk 
ing  beside,  and  suddenly  a  roly-poly  puppy  slipped 
away  from  a  boy  and  ran  straight  under  the 
clumsy  hoofs.  .  .  .  You  never  heard  such  ki-yi's. 
You'd  think  he  was  being  vivisected.  There  was  a 
shrieking  streak  of  white  and  he  disappeared 
under  a  culvert.  The  old  mare  stopped,  wide 
awake  and  horror-stricken,  and  the  boy — a  pitiful 
little  person  with  his  head  held  tautly  back,  almost 
a  hunchback — and  the  driver  and  I  flew  to  the 
spot  and  all  the  village  Hectors  laid  their  helmets 
by  and  gave  themselves  to  the  hour.  The  sweet 
est  old  man  in  rusty  black  laid  right  down  flat  on 
his  stomach  and  peeked  into  the  dusty  tunnel,  call 
ing,  "Come,  pup!  Come,  pup!  Come,  dear!" 
But  the  yammerings  went  on. 

Finally  the  blacksmith  next  door  put  down  a 
pink  horseshoe  and  came  out.  I'm  much  obliged 
for  blacksmiths  nowadays,  aren't  you,  Michael 
Daragh?  I  love  their  leaping  fires  and  their  worn, 
leather  aprons  and  their  dim,  rich  Flemish  in 
teriors, — in  our  soft  world  of  push  buttons. 

This  one  said,  "Was  they  a  string  around  his 
neck,  Dan'l?"  Then  he  went  back  into  his  shop 

119 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


and  returned  with  a  long  stick  with  a  bent  nail 
in  the  end  and  began  to  fish  absorbedly  into  the 
culvert.  Presently  a  wild  crescendo  of  shrieks 
announced  his  catch.  I  shut  my  eyes  and  covered 
my  ears  and  when  I  looked  again  he  was  hauling 
out  a  quivering  lump  of  baby  dog.  He  felt  him 
all  over  with  grimy,  gentle  fingers  and  "  allowed 
they  warn't  nothin'  broke  .  .  .  just  skairt  him 
outer  a  year's  growth,"  handed  him  back  to  the 
boy  and  went  again  to  his  horseshoe.  The  people 
pressed  close  with  little  clucks  of  sympathy  and 
made  the  nicest  fuss  about  it,  and  the  boy  turned 
out  to  be  Daniel  Gillespie  and  I  went  right  on  home 
with  him  and  arranged  to  move  there  to-morrow — 
his  mother  desiring  a  day  in  which  to  "red  up" 
for  me.  I  wanted  to  go  at  once — I'm  so  afraid 
this  hotel  might  close  with  a  snap,  with  me  on  the 
inside.  At  noon  to-day  I  did  not  crave  any  of  the 
ready-to-wear  effects  on  the  zebra  menu  card  and 
asked  the  aloof  young  lady  under  the  pompadour 
how  long  the  chops  would  take.  "  'Bout  fifteen 
minutes."  "Very  well,  then,"  I  said,  "I'll  take 
the  chops."  "Ain't  any." 
Don't  you  adore  that,  Michael  Daragh? 

The  Next  Friday, 
At  Deacon  Gillespie' s. 

The  top  of  the  morning  to  you,  Michael  Daragh ! 
Here  in  the  rich  cream  of  the  day  we're  waiting 
for  the  mail,  Dan'l  and  I  and  the  pup.  Guess 
where?  In  the  graveyard,  and  I'm  sitting  on  a 
tumbled-over  tombstone.  I  wish  I  could  make  you 

120 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


see  this  spot.  I've  always  hated  cemeteries,  the 
sleek,  prosperous,  well-fed,  well-groomed  sort,  but 
this  is  indeed  God's  Acre.  You  step  over  the 
broken  stones  of  the  wall  into  a  land  of  gracious 
gray;  gray  stone  and  moss,  gray  sky  and  feathery 
fog.  Twice  only  in  my  vista  a  note  of  color — a 
low-growing  lobelia,  intensely  blue  against  the  foot 
of  a  new  grave,  and  further  on  a  brave  geranium, 
flaunting  the  scarlet  flag  of  defiance  at  death ;  for 
the  rest,  the  quiet  gray  of  peace  and  permanence. 
Involuntarily,  one  treads  softly,  as  in  a  room  with 
sleepers  .  .  .  sleepers  of  a  long,  soft  sleep  .  .  . 
who  have  laid  them  thankfully  down  to  rest  and 
left  no  call ! 

I  hear  the  Mip-Jclup  of  Lizzie,  the  postman's 
horse,  so  I  can't  tell  you  about  the  Gillespies  until 
next  letter. 

Dear  M.  D.,  I'm  growing  so  nice  you  wouldn't 
know  me  for  the  frenzied  vaude-villain  of  a  fort 
night  past.  Some  of  the  old  cells  in  my  brains  are 
coming  to  life  again.  Thanks,  Michael  Daragh! 
Do  you  know  what  M.D.  stands  for? — Do-er  of 
Miracles.  Isn't  it  pretty  much  of  a  miracle  to 
make  me  turn  my  back  on  five  orders  and  bring 
my  soul  up  here  to  renovate  it? 

J.V. 

Tuesday. 

Michael  Daragh,  I'm  up  in  my  cunning  little 
room  with  its  heaving  ceiling  and  its  braided  mats 
and  patchwork  quilt,  and  I  can  look  down  on  the 
corner  of  the  graveyard  and  see  Dan'l  and  his 

121 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


dog  waiting  for  Uncle  Robert.  He  is  not  a  real 
postman  but  he  drives  down  for  his  own  mail 
every  day  and  "stops  by"  with  the  Gillespies'. 
(Not  that  they  ever  have  any!)  He's  the  old" man 
who  got  down  on  his  rusty  black  stomach  to  peek 
into  the  culvert  and  call  "Come,  pup,  come,  dear!" 
He's  the  sweetest  old  thing  with  Dan'l.  The  child 
lives  in  constant  hope  of  a  letter,  and  every  day 
Uncle  Robert  (he's  everybody's  uncle)  says, 
"Wall,  not  to-day,  Dan'l!"  And  then  Dan'l  and 
the  pup  trot  home. 

Dan'l  is  the  most  appealing  child!  I've  always 
fancied  the  freckles  and  splinters  and  grime  and 
cheek  type  of  little  boy,  but  Dan'l  gets  into  your 
heart,  some  way.  He  makes  me  think  of  Andrea 
del  Sarto's  young  St.  John  in  the  Wilderness,  for 
he  has,  in  addition  to  the  unearthly  sweetness  in 
his  eyes,  a  warmth  of  coloring  at  variance  with  the 
drained  fairness  of  these  islanders.  His  Canadian 
mother  explains  that, — "her  that  was  Angerleek 
Larrydoo,"  as  the  neighbors  say,  and  that  just 
expresses  it.  She  was — but  she  isn't  any  more. 
She's  just  the  Deacon's  "woman."  (That  is  his 
own  gallant  phrase:  "I  guess  likely  my  woman '11 
cal'late  she  c'n  do  fer  y'u,"  he  said  when  I  asked 
for  board.) 

She  has  a  sort  of  petrified  prettiness,  the  ghost 
of  girlhood  in  a  face  furrowed  and  sagging  with 
fretted  years.  Age  and  unhappiness  have  hard 
ened  about  the  sweetness  of  long  ago— like  a  rose 
imbedded  in  ice  at  a  country  fair. 

122 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


And  the  Deacon !  I  didn't  know  it  gave  his  like, 
in  these  lax  days.  He  has  a  beautifully  chiseled 
old  face  with  an  eagle  beak  and  ice-blue  eyes,  and 
he  looks  as  if  his  favorite  winter  sport  were  Turn 
ing  Erring  Daughters  Out  into  the  Snow. 

Danl  is  the  only  child  at  home  now  and  they 
both  adore  him, — the  mother  with  timid  tenderness 
and  the  old  man  with  fierce  repression.  Even  the 
pup  takes  on  character  from  the  family.  I  call  it 
Sweet-Alice-Ben-Bolt,  because  it  very  nearly 
weeps  with  delight  when  you  give  it  a  smile  and 
treinbles  with  fear  at  your  frown.  The  Deacon  is 
of  that  large  and  austere  order  of  persons  who< 
"like  c'ogs,  in  their  place";  S.A.B.B.  wears  his 
stumpy,  little  tail  at  half  mast  whenever  the  head 
of  the  hovise  is  near. 

There  is  some  mystery  about  Dan'Ps  watching* 
for  a  letter.  His  mother  yearns  over  him  and 
says, — "But,  maybe  to-morrow,  Dannie!"  but  his 
father  sneers,  and  then  the  child  seems  to  shrivel 
before  my  eyes. 

I  wish  I  could  slip  some  silver-gray  fog  in  this 
letter,  to  rub  on  your  burning  brow! 

J.V. 

Some  Day  in  October 

My  days  slip  by  like  pearl-gray  beads  on  a 
rosary,  Michael  Daragh.  I  honestly  haven't  an 
idea  of  the  date.  But  I  know  Dan'Ps  story.  We 
were  sitting  on  the  toppled-over  tombstone  of  a 
sturdy  old  patriarch  who  had  buried  four  wives, 
just  after  the  postman  went  by  one  day,  and  the 

123 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


child  said,  defensively,  as  if  in  answer  to  my 
thought 

"But  I  did  get  a  letter,  once!" 

I  kept  mouse-still,  and  he  told  me.  Last  summer 
there  came  to  Three  Meadows  a  lazy,  charming, 
gypsy  sort  of  fellow  from  nowhere,  stony  broke, 
to  whom  the  Deacon  gave  work  for  his  board.  Out 
of  Danny's  clipped  phrases  I  could  build  up  the 
rogue's  personality,— the  gay,  lavish,  careless, 
happy-go-lucky-ness  which  warmed  the  cockles  of 
the  little  lad's  hungry  heart. 

He  was  here  four  months,  and  then  a  pal  wrote 
him  he  could  get  him  a  job  as  handy  man  with  a 
small  circus  then  in  Vermont.  But  Dan'l's  be 
loved  vagabond  hadn't  a  sou,  and  before  he  could 
tramp  there,  the  show  would  be  far  on  its  southern 
way.  Naturally,  the  Deacon  refused  a  loan — I  can 
just  see  the  way  his  mouth  would  snap  shut  like 
a  trap,  but  Dan'l,  what  with  egg  money  and  his 
tiny  garden,  and  errand  money  from  summer 
boarders,  had  gathered  together  twenty  slow  dol 
lars,  and  he  came  lavishly  forward.  The  rover 
blithely  promised  to  pay  him  back  in  two  monthly 
payments.  He's  never  sent  a  penny.  He  wrote 
once ;  Danny  showed  me  the  letter,  worn  with  many 
rapt  readings, — a  silly,  flowing  hand  which  looks 
as  if  it  had  been  done  up  in  curl  papers  over  night 
— and  explained  that  he'd  been  sick,  and  had  to 
buy  clothes,  but  next  month,  sure!  And  Dan'l 
was  a  sport  and  true  blue  and  a  little  old  pal,  and 
he'd  never  forget  him. 

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JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


Dan'l's  "bein'  so  puny"  saved  him  the  whole 
brunt  of  his  father 's  rage,  but  this  sneering  scorn 
has  been  harder  to  bear, — and  the  amazing  part 
of  it  is  that  the  boy  doesn't  really  care  about  the 
money, — lean  little  Islander  though  he  is.  That  is 
merely  the  symbol  of  his  friend's  good  faith.  "Ef 
only  he'd  jest  write  'n  tell  me  things,"  he  sighed, 
"th'  money  c'd  wait.  He  needs  it  worse 'n  I  do." 

Meanwhile,  with  eternal-springing  hope  in  his 
little  flat  chest  he  trots  down  to  the  graveyard  cor 
ner  every  day,  and  every  day  Uncle  Robert  says, 
with  a  cheery  chirp  in  italics,  "Wall,  not  to-day, 
Dan'l!" 

The  child  is  getting  thinner  and  paler,  now  the 
sharp  weather  is  coming.  His  father  wrote  a  la 
borious  letter  by  the  lamp,  one  evening,  and  a  week 
later  a  good  gruff  old  doctor  came  over  from  the 
mainland  and  chaffed  Danny  about  his  pup  and 
told  him  to  play  in  the  sun  and  drink  plenty  of  milk 
and  not  to  fret  about  school  this  year.  I  waylaid 
him  privately  and  asked  if  there  was  anything  I 
could  get  or  do — a  tonic,  a  change.  He  patted  my 
shoulder  and  said,  "Land  t 'goodness,  no!  That 
youngun's  been  a-dying  ever  since  I  borned  him, 
fourteen  years  ago.  He  warn't  meant  for  old 
bones." 

Oh,  Michael  Daragh,  I  can't  stand  it — poor  lit 
tle  Daniel  in  a  Lion's  Den  of  broken  faith,  and 
scorn,  and  creeping  death!  What  can  I  do? 

J.  V. 


CHAPTER  X 

BUT  it  was  well  into  October  before  the 
Irishman  got  the  letter  which  he  had  been 
waiting  for — the  one  which  sent  the  color 
mounting  gladly  in  his  lean  cheeks.    It  was  not 
long,  but  it  fairly  sang  with  jubilance  and  the  feel 
of  it  in  his  hand  was  warm. 

On  a  Gold  and  Scarlet  Afternoon. 

Michael  Daragh,  I  'm  at  work !  Steadily,  sanely, 
surely,  at  work  again! 

Long  ago,  before  I  began  to  run  after  strange 
gods,  I  got  a  story  back  from  the  New  England 
Monthly — that  Dean  of  Magazines  in  her  sober 
brown  frock  with  no  jewels  or  adornments  at  all, 
— with  a  quite  wonderful  personal  note.  If  I  had 
followed  it  up,  I  do  believe  I'd  have  landed  on  that 
stern  and  rock-bound  coast,  but  I  went  over  to  the 
flesh  pots  instead.  Now  I  have  made  a  stern  and 
rock-bound  compact  with  myself.  I'm  not  coming 
back  to  New  York,  and  you  are  not  to  write  me  a 
line,  until  I've  written  a  tale  that  brown-gowned 
magazine  will  take.  "  Where  there  is  no  vision, 
the  people  perish,"  the  Deacon  thundered,  at  a 
meeting.  I  was  very  near  to  perishing,  when  you 

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JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


scolded  me  awake,  Michael  Daragh,  M.D.,  Miracle 
Do-er,  God  save  you  kindly! 

That  vaudeville  work — and  I  shall  do  more  of 
it,  some  day — was  like  a  fast  and  furious  game  of 
tennis  under  a  scorching  sun;  now  I'm  delving  in 
a  dim,  cool  library. 

I'm  going  to  be  as  patient  as  a  locust  bridge- 
builder.  I  know  that  flocks  of  long  envelopes  are 
coming  back,  bringing  their  tales  behind  them,  but 
one  day  I  shall  hear  a  jubilant  note  in  the  klip- 
Mup  of  Lizzie  's  hoofs  and  Uncle  Robert  will  hand 
me  an  envelope  of  bewitching  smallness,  with  a 
tiny  typed  letter  inside.  .  .  .  "It  is  with  very 
great  pleasure.  .  .  ." 

Until    that     day    break,     and    the     shadows 

flee  away 

J.  V. 

It  was  Michael  Daragh 's  custom  to  read  these 
letters  three  times,  carefully,  and  then  to  tear  them 
in  pieces  which  would  be  annoyingly  and  impos 
sibly  small  to  the  chambermaid,  and  to  throw  them 
into  his  waste-paper  basket,  but  this  time,  after 
his  third  perusal,  instead  of  destroying  it  he  put 
it  away  in  his  worn  leather  wallet.  "Ill  be  keep 
ing  it,  just,  till  the  next  one  comes,"  he  told  him 
self,  silently,  "so  I  can  be  comparing  the  way 
she's  coming  on — God  love  her." 

But  the  next  letter  to  come  and  several  follow 
ing  held  no  mention  of  her  task.  It  was  as  if  she 

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JANE    JOURNEYS    ON 


had  opened  the  heart  of  her  mind  further  than  she 
meant  to  do,  and  was  shyly  standing  in  front  of 
it,  now,  talking  of  things  remote  and  removed. 

Friday  Morning. 

I've  found  a  way  to  make  Dan'l  happy,  M.D. 
I  was  reading  to  him  last  night,  and  suddenly  he 
said  in  his  shy,  repressed  way,  "Was  you  ever  to 
a  circus  ?"  I  started  to  say  that  they  bored  me 
to  the  bone,  even  in  infancy,  but  I  happened  to 
glance  up  and  see  his  eyes.  He's  been  following 
his  beloved  vagabond  about  in  his  heart,  you  see. 
So  I  tried  to  create  a  circus  for  him — the  round 
rag  rug  was  the  sawdust  ring,  the  steaming  kettle 
was  the  calliope,  wheezing  a  strident  song  about 
a  wooden  leg,  and  out  of  thin  air  came  the  haughty 
ringmaster  and  the  clown  and  the  pink  acrobats, 
and  I  remembered  thankfully  that  I'd  memorized 
Vachel  Lindsey's  "Kallyope"  long  ago 

"  Tooting  joy,  tooting  hope, 
I  am  the  Kallyope! 
Hoot,  toot,  hoot,  toot, 
"Willy,  willy  wah  hoo, 
Sizz— fizz " 

Dan'l  held  his  breath,  his  eyes  starry,  and  his 
mother  stopped  her  work,  and  I  could  see  that  the 
old  man  was  listening  slyly.  Do  you  know  it, 
Michael?  It's  pure  witchcraft  of  words. 

128 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


"See  the  flags;  snow-white  tent; 
See  the  bear  and  elephant ; 
See  the  monkey  jump  the  rope; 
Listen  to  the  lion  roar, 
LISTEN  TO  THE  LION  EOAE! 
Listen  to  the  Kallyope,  Kallyope,  Kallyope ! ' ' 

(He  must  have  been  thinking  of  the  (Deacon's 
sort:) 

"I  will  blow  the  proud  folk  low, 
Humanize  the  dour  and  slow, 
I  will  shake  the  proud  folk  down " 

Dan'l  went  to  sleep  pink  and  happy.    So  did  I! 

J.V. 

Wednesday. 

I  haven't  told  you  about  the  "Low-down 
Wilkes,"  have  I?  They're  the  pleasantest  people 
in  Three  Meadows  and  we're  very  clubby.  The 
nice  old  maid  on  the  wharf  at  Bath  told  me  about 
them  and  advised  me  to  have  the  woman  do  my 
washing,  but  warned  me  that  I  should  have  to  come 
unto  her  delicately,  like  Agag.  Being  the  poorest 
and  most  destitute  family  on  the  Island  they  are 
correspondingly  proud  and  "techy." 

Shiftlessness  is  a  fine  art  with  them,  they've 
carried  it  so  far.  Last  winter  they  lived  in  a  very 
good  two-story  house,  and  as  it  was  a  very  bitter 
season  and  Mr.  L.D.W.  was  "kinder  run  down, 
someway,"  he  very  ingeniously  burnt  it  for  fuel 

129 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


while  they  were  living  in  it, — first  the  partitions 
in  the  second  story,  then  the  floor,  then  the  stairs, 
then  the  downstairs  walls  and  doors.  Wasn't  that 
clever  of  him?  Now  it's  just  a  charred  shell,  and 
— grace  of  a  more  opulent  relative — they  are 
camping  in  an  unused  barn.  They  fish  a  little, 
and  pick  blueberries,  and  wonder,  vaguely,  "jest 
how  they'll  make  out,  come  wintuh." 

I  wish  you  might  have  seen  her  when,  after  a 
long  social  call,  I  subtly  introduced  the  subject  of 
laundry  and  dilated  on  my  helpless  predicament. 
She  weighed  and  considered  and  consulted  with 
her  spouse,  and  said  at  last,  "Wall,  I  don't  keer 
if  I  do — but  I  wunt  fetch'n  kerry  fer  nobuddy!" 
Since  when  I  have  myself  fetched  and  carried  my 
garments,  and  they  are  rapidly  taking  on  the 
tinge  of  prevailing  Island  grayness.  The 
L.D.W.'s  are  gentle  and  gay,  and  they  love  Dan'l 
and  "Angerleek"  even  if  she  is  "a  furriner,"  and 
they  sigh  that  the  Deacon  is  "a  good  man,  but 
ha 'ad."  His  severity  has  driven  all  the  older 
children  away  from  home,  two  of  them  girls. 
(Wasn't  I  right  about  the  Erring  Daughters  and 
the  Snow?) 

I  asked  Mrs.  L.  D.  W.  if  I  might  bestow  upon 
her  a  tailored  suit  which  has  almost  worn  me  out. 
She  hesitated,  shifted  the  1920  model  in  Low- 
Down  Wilkes  to  the  other  hip  (babies  are  their 
only  lavish  luxury!)  and  allowed  she  didn't  mind, 
if  I  was  a  mind  to  fetch  it  down  to  the  graveyard 
corner  some  night  after  dusk.  Every  human  being 

130 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


in  Three  Meadows  has  seen  me  wear  it  and  could 
describe  it  to  the  last  stitch  and  button,  and  every 
one  will  know  where  she  got  it.  Nevertheless,  in 
a  world  of  foot-lickers,  isn't  pride  like  that  de 
licious  1 

I  did  for  myself  when  I  started  that  indoor  cir 
cus  effect;  sentenced  to  be  Scheherazade!  Lady 
chariot  drivers  and  spotted  clowns  and  strange 
beasts  swarm  through  the  prim,  gray  farmhouse. 
Dan'l  has  stayed  in  bed  for  two  days,  and  Uncle 
Bobert's  chirp  is  growing  husky. 

Between  circus  performances  I'm  working  like 
a  riverful  of  beavers.  The  best  story  I've  ever 
written  is  almost  ready  to  launch. 

J.  V. 

Tuesday. 

DEAR  MICHAEL  DARAGH,  I  can't  bear  it  about 
Dan'l!  I  don't  mean  about  his  going, — the  old 
doctor  is  right  about  that,  but  oh,  that  wretched 
rover!  Dan'l  makes  loyal  excuses  for  him — he 
must  be  sick  again  or  out  of  work  or  too  busy ;  the 
flame  of  his  faith  never  burns  dim. 

This  morning  I  went  to  the  Deacon.  "Look 
here,"  I  said,  "that  fellow  will  never  pay  up  and 
Dan'l  is  breaking  his  heart."  He  nodded. 
"Well,"  I  went  on,  "I  mean  to  make  up  a  letter 
and  put  in  twenty  dollars  and  send  it  to  a  friend 
of  mine  in  New  York  to  mail  back  to  Danl." 

His  eagle  eye  grew  bleak.  "Falsehood  and 
forgery!"  he  thundered.  "I'm  a  plain  man,  sin- 

131 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


ful,  Adam's  seed  as  we  all  are,  but  I  never  yet 
soiled  my  lips  with  a  lie." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  bother  about  it  at  all,"  I  as 
sured  him.  "I'll  do  the  whole  thing.  You  see, 
my  lips  aren't  so  immaculate,  or  so  fussy!" 

"I  want  act  a  lie,  neither,"  he  said. 

I  could  feel  myself  generating  temper,  and  it 
was  a  relief  for  it  deadened  my  grief  over  Dan'l 
to  be  fine  and  mad  at  his  father.  I  looked  him 
straight  in  his  ice-blue  eye.  "Just  what  do  you 
mean  by  that,  Mr.  Gillespie?" 

"I  wunt  have  the  boy  deceived.  Ain't  no  peace 
comin'  from  a  lie!  Land  t'  goodness,"  he  re 
garded  me  mournfully,  "don't  we  have  to  strive 
night  an'  day,  'thout  takin'  any  extry  sins  on  our 
souls?" 

"Why,  no,  Deacon  Gillespie,"  I  told  him 
sweetly,  "I  don't  have  a  bit  of  trouble  being  good. 
It  just  seems  to  come  naturally  to  me!" 

I  know  he  yearned  to  box  my  ears.  Instead,  he 
roared,  "We  are  as  prone  to  evil  as  the  sparks  to 
fly  upward!" 

' '  You  may  be, "  I  said.  '  '  I  shouldn  't  wonder  at 
all  if  you  are.  But  as  for  me,  I'm  not  a  miserable 
sinner  and  I  never  was.  I  shouldn 't  know  an  evil 
impulse  if  I  met  it  in  my  mush  bowl!"  Then  I 
left  him,  purple  with  scandalized  rage,  and  found 
Angelique  and  told  her  my  pretty  plan.  Oh, 
Michael,  if  you  could  have  seen  the  poor  thing! 
Her  knees  fairly  gave  way  under  her  and  she  sank 
into  a  chair  and  put  her  apron  over  her  head.  I 

132 


JANE   JOUKNEYS    ON 


said,  "I  thought  if  you  were  willing,  perhaps  the 
Deacon — "  but  she  cried  out,  "No,  no!  One  time 
the  oldes'  boj,  Lena,"  she  still  has  a  bit  of  the  soft 
habitant  accent,  "he  do  something  bad,  an'  I  tell 
a  lie,  so  hees  father  shall  not  beat  heem.  By  and 
by,  he  fin'  out  ..."  she  shut  her  eyes  and  shiv 
ered.  "Heem  he  beat  twice  as  hard  .  .  .  me,  he 
nevair  believe  again,  all  these  years  ..." 

Michael  Daragh,  I  hate  the  Deacon.  I  know  you 
consider  hate  the  lowest  form  of  human  activity, 
but  I  hate  the  Deacon  with  a  husky,  hearty, 
healthy  hate  and  it  has  a  tonic  effect  which  I'm 
sure  must  be  good  for  me.  I  feed  my  fancy  on 
boiling  him  in  oil. 

Gibbering  with  perfectly  proper  rage, 

J.  V. 

The  next  note  which  came  to  the  Irishman  was 
only  a  line  in  length  and  a  coolly  typed  line,  but 
even  so  the  letters  seemed  fairly  to  sing  and  to 
dance 

The  story  is  done.    It  is  good,  Michael  Daragh. 

The  letter  which  followed  it  went  back  to  the 
human  concerns  about  her. 

Friday. 

I'm  sitting  on  the  gravestone  of  the  four- time 
widower,  M.D.,  my  sweater  turned  up  about  my 
ears,  my  fingers  navy  blue,  my  nose  magenta.  The 
world  is  bleak  and  bare,  indoors  and  out.  Dan'l 

133 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


grows  hourly  weaker,  but  he  brightens  at  mail 
time,  and  grins  his  gallant  little  grin  at  disap 
pointment.  "But  he  will/'  he  stoutly  whispers. 

Gentle  old  Uncle  Eobert  grows  fierce.  "Ef  I 
had  that  varmint  here,  I  vum  I  c'd  wring  his 
neck!" 

I'm  sorry  to  report  that  I  am  not  getting  on 
very  well  with  hating  the  Deacon.  (Of  course, 
you've  kept  the  intervening  air  quivering  with 
your  admonitory  wirelesses!)  He  is  suffering  so 
hideously,  and  so  determinedly,  like  a  fakir.  He 
feels  he  must  speed  the  parting  soul  with  the 
Scriptures  and  he  reads  terrifying  things  about 
weird  beasts, — lion-mouthed  leopards  with  feet 
like  bears — and  when  he  goes  downstairs  I  try — 
very  clumsily,  M.D. — to  tell  Dan'l  about  the  God 
you  know,  the  one  who  goes  with  you  into  dark 
alleys  and  dark  hearts.  I  wish  you  were  here  to  do 
it. 

Dan'l's  faith  is  indeed  the  substance  of  things 
hoped  for  and  the  evidence  of  things  not  seen,  but 
I  want  to  put  a  warm,  tangible  lie  into  his  thin 
little  claws  before  he  goes.  .  .  .  Uncle  Bobert  has 
"been  an'  went"  since  I  began  this  letter,  and 
again  I  must  go  up  to  Dan'l  and  tell  him  "Not  to 
day." 

I'm  a  coward,  M.D.  I've  never  seen  death  so 
close  before,  and  I  want  to  run  away.  But  I 
won't. 

J.  V. 

P.S.    I  called  on  the  Low  Down  Wilkes  this 

134 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


morning.  Mrs.  L.  D.  W.  was  wearing  my  suit 
over  a  wrapper  of  faded  red  calico,  but  there  was 
nothing  in  her  manner  to  indicate  that  I  had  ever 
seen  it  before. 

Saturday. 

Here  is  my  story,  Michael  Daragh,  and  it  is 
your  story,  too,  for  you  shamed  me  into  doing  it. 
I  am  sending  it  off  to  the  brown-gowned  monthly 
on  the  stern  and  rock-bound  coast,  and  this  carbon 
to  you.  Now  will  you  write  and  tell  me  if  you 
like  it?  Honestly!  (I  know  I  said  I  didn't  want 
you  to  write  me  until  I  had  landed  a  story  there, 
but  all  this  grief  and  grimness  brings  a  sense  of 
bleak  loneliness,  and  if  you  think  I've  won  back 
what  I've  lost,  if  you  think  I've  found  the  vision 
which  will  keep  my  soul  from  perishing,  tell  me 
so.) 

J.  V. 

^Sunday  Night. 
I've  been  making  circus  all  day,  M.D. 

"Tooting  joy,  tooting  hope, 
Willy  wully  wah  hoo  .  .  . 
I  am  the  golden  dream, 
Singing  science,  singing  steam — 
Listen  to  the  lion  roar — " 

I've  roared  myself  hoarse  but  I  got  him  to  sleep 
at  last.  I  have  figured  it  out  and  I  see  that  I  can't 
hear  from  either  you  or  the  Monthly  before  Wed- 

135 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


nesday  at  the  earliest,  and  I  won't  let  myself  really 
look  for  anything  before  Friday. 

J.  V. 

Again  there  came  a  single  line 

Monday  Night. 

It's  too  heart-breaking  to  write  about,  M.D., 
even  to  you. 

Tuesday  Morning. 

I've  had  to  stop  hating  the  poor  old  Deacon 
altogether;  this  morning  he  carried  S.A.B.B.  up 
stairs  with  his  own  hands  and  put  him  on  the  bed 
beside  the  boy. 

J.V. 

Tuesday  Night. 

It's  very  late,  Michael  Daragh,  but  there  are 
things  I  must  tell  you  before  I  sleep. 

I  went  for  a  walk  this  morning,  and  when  I 
came  back  I  saw  Angelique  waving  to  me  from 
the  window.  I  knew,  and  I  ran  into  the  house  and 
upstairs.  The  Deacon  was  praying  aloud,  a  ter 
rible,  cast-iron  prayer,  and  Angelique  was  sobbing 
and  S.A.B.B.  was  whining  and  shivering.  I  knelt 
down  beside  Dan'l  and  he  opened  his  eyes.  I 
could  just  make  out  the  whisper — "My  .  .  s  let 
ter?" 

I  jumped  up  and  ran  over  to  his  father  and 
took  him  by  the  elbow  and  marched  him  into  my 
room  and  shut  the  door  and  stood  with  my  back 

136 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


against  it.  My  teeth  were  chattering  so  I  could 
hardly  speak.  "He's  dying,"  I  said.  "Now  will 
you  let  me!" 

He  was  shaking,  too,  but  he  quavered,  "I  want 
bear  false  witness !  I  wunt  take  a  lie  on  my  soul ! ' 9 

Then  something  boiled  up  and  over  in  my  heart, 
Michael  Daragh.  I  caught  hold  of  him  and  shook 
him  and  I  was  so  strong  I  scared  myself.  "You 
pitiful,  craven-hearted  old  coward,"  I  said,  "all 
you  can  think  of  is  your  sour  old  self!  If  you 
loved  him — if  you  knew  the  first  faint  beginning 
of  love — "  I  snatched  up  the  letter  I  had  ad 
dressed  to  Dan'l  and  ran  over  to  the  dresser  for 
my  purse.  "You  stay  in  here  with  the  truth  and 
keep  your  musty  little  soul  safe!  I'm  going  in 
there  and  tell  him  a  beautiful  lie!" 

But  he  fumbled  some  bills  from  his  lean  old 
wallet.  "Wait!  Here's  twenty  dollars!  I'm 
a-comin',  too!" 

We  went  in  together,  and  he  bent  over  the  bed 
and  held  the  bills  close  to  the  boy's  eyes.  "Look 
a-here,  Dan'l!  Look  a-here,  boy!  Here's  your 
money!  Here's  your  money,  Dan'l!"  (Wasn't 
it  pitiful,  Michael?  Even  then,  he  still  thought 
the  money  meant  most.) 

Dan'l  opened  his  eyes  and  I  said,  "You  were 
right  all  along,  Danny!  You  were  right  to  trust 
and  believe  in  him!  He  was  grateful!" — and  I 
held  the  envelope  where  he  could  see  it, — the  one 
I  had  addressed  in  a  silly,  flowing  screed. 

His  pinched  little  face  lighted  up  from  within 

137 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


— cheerily,  exquisitely,  and  his  chin  went  up  the 
tiniest  fraction  in  glad  pride.  "I  .  .  .  knew  .  .  ." 
He  just  barely  breathed  it,  Michael,  and  then  he 
sort  of  relaxed  all  over  and  gave  a  long,  comfort 
able  sigh,  like  a  tired  puppy,  and — and  went  to 
sleep. 

His  mother  screamed  and  fell  down  beside  the 
bed,  and  the  Deacon  said,  " Loose  him  an'  let  him 
go,  Angerleek!" — but  he  lifted  her  up  and  kept 
his  arms  around  her. 

I  went  away  and  left  them  there  with  Dan'l  and 
S.A.B.B.  I  had  forgotten  all  about  mail  time,  but 
I  found  myself  presently  at  the  graveyard  corner. 
It  was  one  of  those  gentle,  warmed-over  summer 
days  and  the  air  was  mild  and  filled  with  little 
whispers.  I  was  so  happy,  Michael  Daragh,  that 
in  my  heart  I  heard  the  "harpers  harping  with 
their  harps,"  but  by  and  by  I  was  aware  of  a 
nearer,  more  intimate  sound — not  "klip-Uup"  as 
on  other  days,  but  Uipety-Uipety-KLIPETY—a, 
panic  of  frantic  speed. 

Down  the  road  they  came,  Old  Lizzie's  hoofs 
scattering  dust  and  pebbles,  Uncle  Kobert  leaning 
far  forward,  laying  on  the  lash.  "When  he  saw  me 
he  cried  out : — ' ' Oh,  it  ain't  too  late f  Oh,  my  dear 
Lord'n  Saviour,  it  ain't  too  late?" 

Then  he  handed  me  a  plump  registered  letter, 
addressed  in  a  foolish,  flowing  screed  which  looked 
as  if  it  had  been  done  up  in  curl  papers  over  night, 
and  I  began  to  cry  for  the  first  time. 

"No,"  I  said,  "oh,  no,  it's  not  too  late!"  And 

138 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


I  ran  up  to  Dan'l's  still  little  room  and  gave  it  to 
the  Deacon  and  he  took  it  with  a  great  wonder  in 
his  ice-blue  eyes  and  slipped  it  under  the  cold  little 
claw,  beside  our  merciful  lie. 

Then  I  went  into  my  own  room,  and  I  noticed 
for  the  first  time  that  Uncle  Robert  had  given  me 
two  other  letters  and  I  stopped  crying  and  stared 
at  them. 

One  was  a  very  small  envelope  and  the  name 
printed  in  the  corner  was  that  of  the  brown-gowned 
magazine  on  the  stern  and  rock-bound.  The  other 
was  yours. 

J.  V. 

P.S.  Guess  which  one  I  opened  first,  Michael 
Daragh,  Do-er  of  Miracles? 


CHAPTER  XI 

JANE  stayed  on  at  Three  Meadows  until  after 
the  bleak  and  austere  little  funeral,  and  long 
enough  to  help  Angelique  soften  the  harshly 
new  grave  with  flowers  and  sturdily  started  plants, 
and  stopped  over  at  Bath  and  ordered  a  quaintly 
simple  headstone  which  would  be  the  Gillespie's 
pride  and  solace. 

She  was  very  happy  on  her  return  journey  to 
New  York, — in  vastly  different  mood  than  the  one 
of  nine  weeks  before.  Michael  Daragh  had  writ 
ten  her  a  brief  and  beautiful  letter,  a  letter  she 
would  always  keep,  as  soon  as  he  had  read  her 
etory,  and  the  thought  of  it  warmed  her  like  a 
summer  sun,  but  as  she  went  down  the  twisting 
silver  river  she  had  a  vexed  feeling  that  her  post 
script  had  been  a  bit  of  foolishness.  ' ( Guess  which 
one  I  opened  first,  Michael  Daragh,  Do-er  of  Mir 
acles  f"  Their  relationship  had  shifted  in  these 
long  weeks ;  ever  since  the  evening  on  Riverside 
Drive  when  he  had  sternly  recalled  her  to  herself, 
they  had  gone  by  leaps  and  bounds,  by  hedge  and 

140 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


byway,  into  a  deeper  and  more  intimate  friend 
ship,  and  yet,  she  told  herself,  that  added  line  at 
the  end  of  her  letter  to  him  was  a  High  School 
girlish  thing  to  have  done ;  it  presupposed  some 
thing  between  them  which  wasn't  there  at  all. 
She  had  flung  it  in  without  weighing  it;  she  had 
honestly  meant  at  the  moment,  that  his  approval 
of  her  new  and  serious  story  was  more  precious 
to  her  even  than  the  editor's,  but  .  .  .  would 
Michael  Daragh  understand  it  that  way? 

She  did  not  write  him  the  exact  time  of  her 
arrival,  and  it  was  the  merest  chance  that  she 
found  him  starting  up  the  steps  as  her  taxicab 
drew  up  at  Mrs.  Hills'  door.  They  went  up  to 
gether  and  at  his  first  hearty  look  and  word  she 
was  able  to  laugh  at  herself  for  having  worried 
an  instant. 

"It's  rare  and  fine  to  have  you  back,  Jane  Vail," 
he  said,  glowing  with  gladness.  "And  you  were 
good  indeed  to  be  sending  me  the  long  story  let 
ters  all  the  while.  'Twas  like  a  journey  itself,  the 
way  I'd  be  following  you  up  and  down  on  that 
Island  with  all  the  queer  folk  and  sad,  and  wait 
ing  at  the  graveyard  corner  for  the  mail!" 

Jane  glowed  in  return.  "It's  good  to  be  back, 
Michael  Daragh."  (The  nice,  sane,  sensible,  de 
pendable  creature  that  he  was!  What  a  solid 

141 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


comfort  it  was  to  have  him !  This  was  exactly  the 
way  she  wanted  him  to  act  and  to  feel  and  to  be, 
and  she  wasn't — she  was  at  some  pains  to  assure 
herself — in  the  very  least  feeling  vaguely  disap 
pointed  or  let  down  by  his  attitude.)  "But  it  was 
the  best  time  I  ever  had, — best  in  the  sense  of  be 
ing  the  best  for  me. ' '  Generously  and  sweetly  she 
gave  him  his  due.  "I'm  still  thanking  you,  you 
know,  M.D.!" 

He  nodded  gravely.  "YouVe  found  your  way 
back  to  the  highroad  in  that  tale  you  were  sending 
me.  I'm  doubting  you'll  ever  lose  it  again  all  the 
long  days  of  your  life." 

6  '  I  won 't,  "said  Jane,  stoutly.  ( Good  to  be  back 
with  him,  good  to  hear  his  purling  brogue  and  his 
lyrical  construction.  He  talked  like  an  old  song.) 
The  door  of  the  boarding-house  opened  at  their 
ring  and  Jane  hurried  in.  "Here's  Mrs.  Hills! 
Hello,  Mrs.  Hills!  Here  I  am!"  She  embraced 
the  ex-villager  warmly  and  espied  Emma  Ellis  in 
the  shadows  of  the  hall,  over  her  shoulder.  "And 
Miss  Ellis !  How-do-you-do  f ' ' 

Miss  Ellis  did  very  well,  according  to  her  own 
statement,  but  it  was  pathetically  clear  to  one  pair 
of  sharp  eyes  at  least  that  she  would  have  done 
better  if  Michael  Daragh  had  not  been  bringing  in 

142 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Jane's  suitcase  and  handbag  and  umbrella  while 
a  taxi  got  under  way  in  the  street. 

"It's  so  nice  to  be  back  with  you  all,"  said  the 
returned  exile,  heartily.  The  Settlement  worker 
came  out  into  the  light  and  it  was  to  be  observed 
that  she  was  still  more  pinched  and  sallow  than  of 
yore  and  Jane's  heart  melted  within  her  to  swift 
mercy.  "I  found  Michael  Daragh  on  the  sidewalk 
and  pressed  him  into  service  as  porter.  Thanks, 
Michael  Daragh.  Am  I  to  give  you  the  quarter 
for  your  Poor  and  Needy?" 

"You  are,  indeed,"  said  the  Irishman,  firmly, 
taking  the  stairs  two  at  a  bound.  "More  than 
that,  you'll  be  giving  me  for  a  case  I  know,  with 
the  proud  and  prosperous  look  you  have  on  you 
this  day!" 

"I  hope,"  said  Emma  Ellis,  conscientiously,  the 
taut  lines  of  her  face  loosening  a  little,  "you  had 
a  pleasant  outing?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jane,  flippantly,  "but  my  outing 
was  an  inning — and  I've  delved  like  a  riverful  of 
beavers,  and  I'll  be  at  work  at  nine  to-morrow 
morning. ' ' 

"That  Mr.  Harrison  has  been  'phoning  and 
'phoning,"  Mrs.  Hills  announced,  complacently. 
"And  he  wants  you  should  ring  him  up  the  min 
ute  you  got  in — something  about  this  evening,  I 

143 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


guess,  he  was  so  set  on  having  you  get  the  mes 
sage.  " 

"That  listens  alluringly!  I'll  call  him  now, — 
may  I?"  She  shook  herself  out  of  her  topcoat 
and  fur  and  sat  down  at  the  hall  telephone.  Mrs. 
Hills  and  Miss  Ellis  discreetly  withdrew  to  the 
living  room,  but  the  low  tones  of  her  voice  were 
carrying  and  it  was  presently  made  clear  to  them 
that  gayety  was  afoot  for  the  evening,  a  sort  of 
gayety  they  two  had  never  known,  would  never 
know  .  .  .  little  tables  with  shaded  candles,  lights, 
music,  subtle,  wheedling  music,  hovering  head- 
waiters  .  .  .  the  newest  play  .  .  .  then  more  lit 
tle  tables,  more  wheedling,  coaxing  music,  more 
hovering  head-waiters,  dancing.  .  .  .  The  board 
ing-house  keeper  told  herself,  comfortably,  that 
it  would  never  do  for  her,  and  pushed  a  tolerant 
curiosity  back  into  the  ragbag  of  her  mind,  and 
the  Settlement  worker  tucked  in  her  lips  and  re 
minded  herself  that  there  would  be  undernourished 
children,  hungry  children,  not  a  mile  from  where 
Miss  Vail  would  be  eating  out-of-season  delicacies, 
and  thanked  her  God  that  she  was  not  as  other 
women. 

Michael  Daragh  came  into  the  room  an  instant 
before  Jane  did.  She  was  flushed  and  bright-eyed 
and  smiling.  "Well!  I'll  have  to  fly!  I  won't  be 

144 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


here  for  dinner,  Mrs.  Hills, — I'm  sorry,  but  it 
seems  this  is  a  rather  special  party  to-night." 

4 'It's  your  kind  of  clam  chowder,  too,"  said  Mrs. 
Hills,  shaking  her  head. 

"Oh,  what  a  shame!  But  save  mine  for  to 
morrow's  lunch, — I  adore  it  warmed  over!  Here, 
Michael  Daragh" — she  opened  her  brown,  beaded 
bag  with  its  high  lights  of  orange  and  gold — 
"catch!"  She  tossed  the  little  suede  purse  to 
him.  ' '  That 's  exactly  the  way  I  feel  to-night,  scat 
tering  largess  to  the  multitude,  regally  pitching 
purses  about !  Take  what  you  want — all  you  want 
— for  that  case!  I  must  fly!"  She  looked  at  her 
wrist  watch.  *  'Mrs.  Hills,  will  you  let  Mabel  come 
and  do  me  up  in  twenty  minutes?  See  you  all  at 
breakfast!"  She  ran  out  of  the  room  and  they 
heard  her  swift  feet  on  the  stair. 

The  boarding-house  keeper  beamed.  Jane  Vail 
was  her  link  with  the  world.  "I  declare,  she's  a 
marvel  to  me !  "Wouldn't  you  think  she'd  be  dead 
on  her  feet  and  want  to  crawl  into  bed  quick's  ever 
she  had  her  supper?  She  won't  close  an  eye  be 
fore  two  o'clock  in  the  morning  if  she  does  then, 
but  she'll  be  down  to  breakfast,  right  on  the  dot, 
fresh  as  paint,  and  out  for  her  walk,  rain,  hail  or 
snow,  and  then  she'll  hammer  that  typewriter  all 
the  forenoon!" 

145 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


"Of  course,"  said  Emma  Ellis  in  her  small, 
smothered  voice,  "Miss  Vail  often  takes  a  little 
nap  in  the  afternoon.  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Hills  was  not  to  be  diverted  from  her  star 
boarder's  glories.  "Well,  it  didn't  take  that  Mr. 
Eodney  Harrison  very  long  to  get  in  action,  did 
it?" 

"It  did  not,  indeed,"  said  the  Irishman,  cheer 
fully.  "How  long  till  dinner,  Mrs.  Hills?  Half 
an  hour?  Then  I'll  be  stepping  up  to  my  room 
for  a  letter  is  keening  to  be  written." 

The  two  women  were  silent  until  they  heard 
him  mounting  the  stairs  to  the  third  floor.  "You 
see?"  said  the  elder,  triumphantly.  "What  did  I 
tell  you?  Not  a  thing  on  earth  between  them! 
Would  she  be  tearing  off  with  another  young  man, 
first  evening  home?  And  isn't  he  cool  as  a  cu 
cumber?" 

Miss  Ellis 's  narrow  little  face  seemed  to  ease 
visibly  into  looser  lines  and  she  sighed.  "Yes. 
You  were  quite  right.  Mr.  Daragh's  mind  is  on 
higher  things." 

The  other  bridled.  "Well,  I  don't  know  as 
you've  any  call  to  put  it  just  that  way.  I  guess 
Jane  Vail's  a  high  enough  thing  for  any  man  to 
think  of!  And  I  guess  the  truth  is,  Jane  Vail's 
got  other  fish  to  fry!" 

146 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


Jane,  meanwhile,  into  her  tub,  out  of  her  tub, 
flinging  herself  once  more  into  urban  silk  and  fine 
linen,  doing  her  hair  with  swift  craft,  was  entirely 
happy.  It  was  good  to  have  gone  away,  at  Michael 
Daragh  7s  rousing  word,  good  to  have  stayed  those 
sober  weeks  on  the  lean,  clean  Island,  good  to 
have  done  good  work  and  to  have  speeded  Dan'Ps 
parting  soul;  and  it  was  good  to  be  back,  to  be 
going  presently  into  the  bright  warm  world  with 
Eodney  Harrison;  it  was  best  of  all  to  find  her 
big  Irishman  as  she  had  found  him.  Her  friend. 
Her  best  friend  .  .  .  best  for  her.  It  was  a  solid 
satisfaction  to  have  him  tabulated  and  pigeon 
holed  at  last  and  for  all  time.  Michael  Daragh 
was  her  best  friend.  That  was  settled.  And  she 
had  been  a  vain,  light-minded  goose  to  fancy  for 
an  instant  that  he  would  misinterpret  that  foolish 
little  postscript  on  her  last  letter, — that  he  would 
want  to  misinterpret  it.  Michael  Daragh  had 
clearly  obeyed  the  command  to  come  apart  and 
be  separate,  and  she  should  never  worry  for  an  in 
stant  about  him  again. 

And  while  she  flew  into  her  most  satisfactory 
frock  and  stood  still  for  Mabel's  slow  bookings 
and  fastenings  and  then  sent  her  down  to  tell  the 
gentleman  she  would  be  with  him  in  two  minutes, 
her  best  friend,  newly  elected  to  that  high  estate, 

147 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


sat  alone  in  his  room  on  the  third  floor,  and  there 
was  in  his  thin  face  none  of  the  calm  which  had 
helped  Mrs.  Hills  to  carry  her  point  with  Emma 
Ellis. 

There  had  been  a  little  rite,  the  evening  before, 
of  burning  such  few  letters  as  he  had  allowed  him 
self  to  keep,  but  he  had  snatched  the  last  one  back 
from  the  blaze  and  cut  off  the  final  line,  the  post 
script,  with  his  desk  scissors,  and  put  the  narrow 
shred  of  paper  into  his  wallet.  And  now,  hearing 
the  sound  of  a  taxicab  in  the  street  below,  he  ap 
proached  his  window  and  looked  down  through  the 
fast-thickening  dusk  of  the  late  fall  evening.  He 
could  not  see  Jane's  exit  from  the  house  nor  her 
entrance  into  the  waiting  vehicle,  but  he  remained 
there,  his  face  pressed  against  the  pane,  until  the 
machine  set  noisily  forth  upon  its  uptown  way. 
Then  he  went  back  to  stand  before  his  fire,  and  he 
opened  his  wallet  and  took  out  the  folded  strip  of 
paper  and  threw  it  on  the  coals  without  reading  it 
again,  for  he  knew  it  very  well  by  heart,  and  he 
was  still  standing  there  when  the  sound  of  Mabel's 
vigorous  gong  summoned  him  down  to  dinner. 

Eodney  Harrison  was  a  trifle  annoyed  and  a 
trifle  amused  at  Jane's  exile,  frankly  contemptu 
ous  of  the  achievement  of  a  tale  in  the  New  Eng- 

148 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


land  Monthly  as  compared  to  vaudeville  bill-top 
pers,  wholly  glad  to  have  her  back.  His  mother 
was  visiting  her  people  in  Boston  at  the  moment, 
but  as  soon  as  she  returned,  he  was  very  sure,  she 
would  want  to  make  that  long-delayed  call  on  his 
young  writing  friend.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  it  was 
the  tale  that  did  it.  Mrs.  Ormsby  Dodd  Harrison 
had  not  seen  her  way  to  the  cultivation  of  a  young 
woman  whose  end  and  aim  in  life  was  the  writing 
of  headline  acts  for  the  two-a-day,  but  a  gifted 
young  author  who  had  two  charming  and  thought 
ful  stories  in  the  brown-gowned  magazine  that 
winter  and  passed  likewise  the  sober  portals  of 
the  other  three  of  the  "Big  Four,"  was  quite  an 
other  thing.  Before  the  holidays,  in  spite  of  her 
telescoping  activities  at  that  season,  Mrs.  Harri 
son  motored  down  to  Washington  Square  and 
called  on  Miss  Vail  at  Mrs.  Hills'  boarding  house, 
and  asked  her  with  just  the  right  admixture  of 
formality  and  cordiality  to  dine  with  them  one 
evening  quite  simply  .  .  .  just  themselves. 

But  Miss  Vail,  it  appeared,  was  not  only  a  very 
hard-working  and  ambitious  young  author,  but 
very  much  feted  and  dated  socially,  and  in  addi 
tion,  gave  generously  of  her  play  time  to  certain 
Worthy  settlements  and  their  concomitant  affairs, 

149 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


and  two  more  months  elapsed  before  an  evening 
could  be  arranged. 
Jane  wrote  of  the  dinner  to  Sarah  Farraday. 

A  shame,  isn't  it,  Sally,  that  we  can't  be  frank 
and  honest?  You  can't  think  how  it  would  have 
comforted  Kodney's  mother  in  her  black  hand- 
run  Spanish  lace  and  the  Harrison  pearls  to  have 
me  say,  "Be  of  good  cheer,  dear  lady!  I  neither 
design  nor  aspire  to  marry  your  son!" 

Then  she  could  have  removed  her  invisible 
armor  and  laid  her  polished  weapons  by  and  given 
herself  over  to  the  delights  of  my  sprightly  chat 
ter.  Eodney's  the  only  son  and  the  only  child,  and 
one  cannot  blame  her  for  being  a  bit  choosey! 
Harrison's  pater,  however,  seemed  to  think  that  he 
could  bear  up  very  cheerfully  under  such  a  con 
tingency — charmingly  cordial,  the  dear  old  thing! 
Rodney  won't  be  nearly  so  nice  at  his  age  because 
he's  come  up  in  a  less  gracious  period. 

But  at  that  he'll  be  very  nice !   He  is  now! 


CHAPTER  XII 

BEFORE  the  end  of  her  second  year  in  New 
York,  many  things,  grave  and  gay,  came 
to  pass.  Sarah  Farraday  came  down  for 
a  fortnight  of  operas  and  concerts  and  went  home 
to  spread  the  marvels  of  Jane's  full  and  glowing 
life  over  the  Vermont  village;  Emma  Ellis  re 
luctantly  gave  up  her  room  at  Mrs.  Hills'  and  be 
came  resident  superintendent  of  the  Hope  House 
Settlement,  and  Michael  Daragh  took  his  noon 
meal  there.  Jane  went  home  twice  for  little  visits 
and  found  changes  even  there, — the  Teddy-bear, 
now  trudging  sturdily  about  in  rompers,  had  a 
small  sister,  and  Nannie  Slade  Hunter  was  pret 
tier  than  ever,  if  a  trifle  too  rotund,  and  Edward 
R.,  very  prosperous  and  pleased  with  himself,  had 
bought  his  wife  an  electric  coupe,  in  which  to  take 
his  offspring  for  a  safe  and  opulent  airing.  Mar 
tin  Wetherby,  Assistant  Cashier,  had  somehow 
put  youth  aside.  His  stoutness  had  closed  in  on 
him  like  an  enemy.  His  mother  admitted  to  Jane 
that  he  did  not  take  sufficient  exercise.  "He 

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JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


doesn't  seem  to  ...  care,"  she  said,  and  looked 
pointedly  away.  To  herself  she  put  it  dramatic 
ally,  with  great  relish;  never,  to  the  day  of  her 
death,  would  she  forgive  the  girl  who  had  ruined 
her  son's  life.  Jane  wished  with  all  her  good- 
natured  heart  that  Marty  would  marry,  happily 
and  handsomely — it  would  be  such  a  relief  to  have 
Mrs.  Wetherby  complacently  triumphant  instead 
of  heavily  reproachful.  And  even  Sarah  Farra- 
day  never  referred  to  him  as  other  than,  "Poor 
old  Marty."  Jane  had  her  moments  of  wishing 
that  they  might,  in  village  parlance,  "make  a 
match  of  it,"  but  they  were  moments  only.  Sarah 
was  much  too  fine ;  she  must  find  Sarah  a  suitor  of 
parts,  somehow,  somewhere. 

It  was  during  the  second  of  her  visits  home  that 
Miss  Lydia  Vail  died.  There  was  no  dreariness 
of  illness  or  misery  of  suffering;  she  died  exactly 
as  she  had  lived,  plumply  and  pleasantly,  in  the 
plump  and  pleasant  faith  that  was  hers,  and  Jane 
left  the  middle-aged  maid  in  charge  of  the  elm- 
shaded,  green-shuttered  house  and  went  back  to 
New  York  with  a  grief  which  was  more  pensive 
than  poignant.  She  refused,  thereafter,  to  rent 
the  old  home,  but  loaned  it  instead,  the  servant 
with  it,  to  various  and  sundry  of  her  city  clan, — 
now  the  girl  who  had  carried  her  first  playlet  to 

152 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


success,  now  to  shabby  music  students  at  Mrs, 
Hills'  whom  Sarah  Farraday  was  pledged  to  re 
gale  with  tea  and  cheer  in  the  afternoons,  now  to 
sad-eyed  women  of  Michael  Daragh's  recommen 
dation. 

Sometimes  she  ran  up  herself  with  a  little 
house-party, — down-at-the-heel  vaudevilleans,  el 
derly,  concert-going  ladies  from  the  boarding 
house,  Emma  Ellis  and  another  settlement  worker 
— and  made  an  expenditure  for  food  and  enter 
tainment  which  secretly  scandalized  the  ancient 
maid. 

She  wrote  her  first  slim  little  novel  which  was 
accepted  for  serial  publication  and  Eodney  Har 
rison  insisted  that  there  was  the  germ  of  a  three- 
act  play  in  it.  She  set  to  work  on  it  and  labored 
harder  than  ever  before  in  her  life,  happily,  hot- 
cheeked,  shining-eyed,  wrote  and  rewrote  and 
clipped  and  amplified  and  smoothed  and  polished, 
and  one  day  Sarah  Farraday  ran  over  to  the 
Hunter's  house  with  a  telegram. 

*  '  Nannie !  It  's  accepted !  Jane 's  three-act  play 
is  accepted !  Did  you  ever  in  all  your  born  days 
see  such  luck  f  She  just  can 't  fail ! ' '  Her  earnest, 
blonde  face  was  a  little  wistful.  "I  never  knew 
any  human  being  to  have  so  much!" 

Mrs.  Edward  B.  was  herding  the  Teddy-bear 

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JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


into  the  coupe  and  she  handed  little  Sarah  Anne 
to  her  friend.  "Get  in,  Sally  dear,  and  I'll  run 
you  home.  I'm  taking  the  children  over  to  Mother 
Hunter's  for  the  day."  She  steadied  Sarah  and 
her  burden  to  a  seat  and  then  tucked  herself  neatly 
in,  and  started  her  bright  vehicle  competently. 
"Well,  I  don't  know.  .  .  .  It's  all  very  fine,  of 
course,  but  I  can  think  of  a  good  deal  she  hasn't 
got!" 

"Oh,  of  course  ..."  said  the  music  teacher. 
After  a  moment  she  sighed.  "Poor  old 
Marty.  .  .  .  Well,  we  can't  lead  other  people's 
lives  for  them,  can  we?" 

"No,  we  can't,"  Mrs.  Edward  E.  admitted,  con 
tentedly.  She  bowled  Sarah  smoothly  back  to  the 
burlapped  studio  in  time  for  the  eleven-twenty 
pupil. 

Jane,  meanwhile,  after  wiring  to  Sarah,  flew  to 
Michael  Daragh  with  her  joyful  tidings  and 
lunched  with  him  and  Emma  Ellis  at  Hope  House. 
The  Irishman,  who  had  read  the  little  play  and 
knew  its  clean  verve  and  charm,  was  radiant  for 
her,  and  the  superintendent  managed  grudging 
congratulations.  They  were  in  the  sitting  room 
after  the  meal,  and  something  seemed  to  smite 
Jane,  swiftly,  with  regard  to  Emma  Ellis;  her 

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JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


bright  eyes  traveled  over  the  whole  of  her, — the 
shabby  hair,  the  hot  and  steaming  face,  the  moist 
fingers  with  their  dull  and  shapeless  nails, — the 
needlessly  cruel  ugliness  of  blouse  and  skirt  and 
shoes;  the  utter  unloveliness  of  her.  As  on  the 
day  of  her  return  from  Three  Meadows,  when 
Emma  Ellis  had  supposed  Michael  Daragh  had 
met  her  at  the  train,  again  her  heart  melted  to 
mercy  within  her.  Oh,  the  poor  thing!  The  poor 
thing 

"Miss  Ellis,  I've  taken  your  chair,  haven't  I?" 

"It  doesn't  matter  where  I  sit,  Miss  Vail.  This 
one  does  well  enough  for  me,"  she  answered,  vir 
tuously. 

Jane  sat  down  on  a  footstool  near  the  window. 
"Do  take  it — not  that  there's  any  cloying  luxury, 
even  there!  Is  it  in  the  constitution  of  Hope 
House  to  have  only  hideous  and  uncomfortable 
furniture?" 

"You  cannot  know  much  about  this  sort  of 
work,  Miss  Vail,  or  you'd  realize  that  our  funds 
are  always  limited,  and  that  we  must  conserve 
them  for  necessities."  It  was  a  depressingly 
warm  day,  and  the  superintendent  felt  it  and 
showed  it,  and  she  reflected  bitterly  that  Jane 
Vail  was  the  sort  of  person  who  was  warm  and 
glowing  in  January,  when  normal  people  were 

155 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


pinched  and  blue,  and  cool  and  crisp  in  Septem 
ber,  when  those  who  had  to  keep  right  on  working, 
no  matter  what  the  weather  was,  had  pools  of  per 
spiration  under  their  eyes  and  shirtwaists  adher 
ing  gummily  to  their  backs.  And  she  always  wore 
things  in  summer  which  gave  out  cunning  sug 
gestions  of  shady  brooksides,  and  managed — in 
that  theatrical  way  of  hers — the  effect  of  bringing 
a  breeze  in  with  her. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Jane,  "if  my  silly  little  paper 
people  get  the  breath  of  life  blown  into  them  and 
my  play  goes  over  and  I  have  regal  royalties,  if  I 
couldn't  do  something  for  Hope  House?" 

"Yon  could,  indeed,  God  save  you  kindly  for 
the  thought,"  said  Michael  Daragh,  happily.  "If 
your  play '11  run  to  it,  you  could  be  buying  us  two 
bathtubs  and " 

"The  linoleum  in  the  kitchen"— Miss  Ellis  for 
got  her  bitterness  for  a  moment — "is  simply  in 
shreds!" 

"I  will  not!"  said  Jane,  crisply.  "Bathtubs 
and  linoleum,  indeed!  Wring  them  out  of  your 
Board!  I  shall  give  you  a  Sleepy  Hollow  couch 
with  bide-a-wee  cushions,  and  deep,  cuddly  arm 
chairs  and  a  lamp  or  two  with  shades  as  mellow 
as  autumn  woods !  And  some  perfectly  frivolous 
pictures  which  aren't  in  the  least  inspiring  or  up- 

156 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


lifting, — and  every  single  girl's  room  shall  have 
a  pink  pincushion!"  Then  at  their  blankness,  she 
softened.  "Oh,  very  well, — you  shall  have  your 
tuhs  and  your  linoleum,  if  you'll  let  me  humanize 
the  rest  of  the  house, — will  you?"  She  came  to 
her  feet  with  a  spring  of  incredible  energy. 
"Come  along,  Miss  Ellis, — let's  have  a  look  up 
stairs  !  We  don't  need  you,  M.D. — this  is  woman- 
stuff." 

The  superintendent  pulled  herself  upstairs  with 
a  sticky  hand  on  the  banister,  "Well,  I  don't 
know  where  you'd  begin,  Miss  Vail.  Everything's 
threadbare.  ..." 

They  went  through  drab  halls  and  into  drab 
rooms  where  drab  occupants  greeted  them  drably, 
and  Jane  ached  with  the  ugliness  of  it.  Wasn't 
it  going  to  be  fun — if  the  play  went  over  "big" — 
to  vanquish  this  much  of  the  hideousness  of  the 
world  ? 

She  stopped  before  a  closed  door.  "What  is 
this?" 

Miss  Ellis  was  walking  past  it.    "That's  my 


room." 


"Well,  may  I  see  it?" 

"Oh,"  she  said,  colorlessly,  "I  didn't  suppose 
you'd  want  to  fix  it  over.  .  .  .""  She  opened  the 
door  and  stepped  in,  crossing  to  the  undraped 

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JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


window  and  running  up  the  stiff  shade  of  faded 
and  streaked  olive  green. 

"But  of  course  I  shall, "  said  Jane,  following 
her  in.  "Well — I  might  have  known !" 

"What?"  asked  Miss  Ellis,  defensively. 

"That  you'd  take  the  smallest  and  shabbiest 
room  in  the  house  for  yourself." 

"Oh,  well  ...  it  doesn't  matter.  I'm  not  in  it 
very  much."  She  walked  over  to  the  warped 
golden  oak  bureau  and  straightened  the  metal  but 
ton  hook  with  the  name  of  a  shoe  shop  pressed 
into  it  into  line  with  the  whisk  broom.  Besides 
these  two  articles  there  bloomed  upon  the  bureau's 
top  a  small  pincushion  made  from  a  piece  of  Cali 
fornia  redwood  bark,  and  a  widowed  saucer  en 
rolled  as  a  pin-tray,  and  into  the  frame  of  the 
mirror  was  stuck  a  snapshot  of  an  unnecessarily 
plain  small  boy. 

"That's  my  little  nephew,"  said  Emma  Ellis, 
seeing  Jane's  eye  upon  it.  "My  sister  Bertha's 
boy." 

"He — he  looks  'bright,  doesn't  he?"  said  Jane, 
hastily.  She  looked  about  her,  consideringly. 
"You  know,  I'd  like  to  do  this  room  in  deep 
creamy  yellow.  That  will  make  it  look  lighter 
and  seem  larger,  and  it  will  be  nice  with  your 
hair." 

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JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


"My  hair?  .  .  ."  said  Miss  Ellis,  limply. 

"You  have  such  nice  hair,  but  I  do  wish  you'd 
do  it  differently,"  said  Jane  with  anxious  friend 
liness.  "You  have  a  mile  of  it,  haven't  you?" 

The  superintendent's  tucked-in  lips  and  her 
whole  taut  figure  visibly  relaxed.  "I  used  to  have 
nice  hair,"  she  admitted  in  the  time-hallowed  for 
mula.  "I  wish  you  could  have  seen  it  four  years 
ago.  It's  come  out  something  terrible!  Well," 
she  made  a  virtue  of  it — "I  never  spend  any  time 
fussing  with  it." 

* '  But  you  ought  to,  you  know !  Let  me  play  with 
it  a  minute,  will  you?  I  adore  doing  hair.  Please 
sit  down — I  just  want  to  try  something  with  it — 
something  I  thought  of  as  I  watched  you  to-day." 
She  pressed  her  into  a  stiff  chair. 

"Well  ..."  said  Miss  Ellis  grudgingly.  She 
produced  a  comb  from  a  bleakly  neat  top  drawer. 

"Heavens,  what  neatness,"  said  Jane.  "And 
the  brush,  please !  You  ought  to  give  it  a  hundred 
and  twenty  strokes  a  night, — see,  like  this?  No, 
it  wouldn't  be  wasting  time!  Just  consider  the 
good  thoughts  you  could  be  thinking.  You  could 
memorize  poetry  or  dates  in  history  or  say  your 
prayers, — and  you'd  say  a  prayer  of  thankfulness 
in  a  year,  when  you  looked  at  the  result.  It  would 
sliine  like  patent  leather. "  Her  fingers  flew. 

159 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


" There!  Now  you  can  look.  See  how  it  brings 
out  the  good  lines  of  your  face?  Wait, — where 's 
your  hand  mirror  1  You  haven 't  one  ?  My  word ! 
Well,  you  can  get  the  idea,  even  so !  Will  you  try 
doing  it  this  way?  It  won't  take  but  a  minute 
longer.  Just  to  please  me?" 

"Well  .  .  ."  she  couldn't  seem  to  think  of  any 
thing  else  to  say,  and  she  had  a  ridiculous  feeling 
that  she  might  be  going  to  cry. 

"And — do  you  mind  my  saying  these  things? — 
I've  always  bullied  my  friends  about  their  clothes 
and  colors — I  do  wish  you  wouldn't  wear  white, 
and  navy  blue." 

"I  always  supposed  white  was  right  for  every 
one." 

"  It 's  wicked  for  most  people !  Cream,  buff,  tan, 
apricot,  burnt  orange —  Let  me  come  down  and 
go  shopping  with  you  some  day,  will  you?  I  never 
cared  about  dressing  dolls  but  I  revel  in  dressing 
people." 

"Well  .  .  ."  said  Miss  Ellis  once  more,  and  this 
time  her  stubborn  chin  quivered. 

' '  Shall  we  go  downstairs  ? ' '  Jane  moved  ahead 
of  her,  her  eyes  averted,  her  voice  cheerfully  com 
monplace.  "Simply  torrid  up  here,  isn't  it?  I'll 
come  some  cool  morning,  and  we'll  make  lists  and 

plans — if  my  play  goes  over " 

160 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


But  before  her  gay  little  play  had  been  running 
three  months,  picking  up  speed  like  a  motor  as  it 
ran — she  had  kept  her  word  to  Hope  House.  She 
became  the  Lady  Bountiful  of  the  bathtubs  and 
linoleums,  of  the  frivolous  lay  pictures  and  the 
autumn  shaded  lamps,  and  she  wrote  impudently 
to  Sarah  Farraday  that  when  she  looked  upon  all 
that  she  had  created  she  saw  that  it  was  very 
good. 

Even  Emma  Ellis  has  undergone  a  sea  change ; 
she's  learned  to  do  her  hair  decently,  and  I've 
actually  persuaded  her  that  while  it's  quite  right 
to  let  her  light  so  shine  before  men,  it's  different 
with  her  nose,  and  you  can't  think  what  a  dusting 
of  flesh-colored  powder  does  for  her!  And  I've 
got  her  out  of  blue  serge  and  white  blouses,  and 
into  cream  and  buff  and  orange  and  brown,  and  I 
daresay  Michael  Daragh  will  now  fall  in  love  with 
her  excellent  qualities  and  her  enhanced  appear 
ance,  and  I  shall  lose  my  best  friend.  (E.  E. 
would  never  allow  friendships.)  I  shall  probably 
wish  I'd  left  her  in  her  state  of  Ugly  Duckling- 
ness,  for  I  simply  can't  spare  St.  Michael  from 
my  scheme  of  things! 


CHAPTER  XIII 

JANE  and  the  Irishman  came  into  the  Settle 
ment  one  day  to  find  the  superintendent 
red-eyed,  with  two  books  on  her  desk.  It  was 
clear  that  she  had  been  having  a  luxurionsly  mis 
erable  time.  "I've  just  finished  two  of  the  most 
powerful  stories, "  she  said,  polishing  the  precious 
powder  from  her  nose  with  a  damp  handkerchief. 
" Every  girl  should  read  them — and  every  man!'9 

"I  wonder  at  you,  Emma  Ellis,"  said  Michael 
Daragh,  "the  way  you'll  be  keening  over  a  printed 
tale,  when  you've  your  heart  and  head  and  hands 
full  of  real  woes  about  you,  surely !" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Daragh,  if  you'd  just  sit  down  and 
read  I  and  The  Narrow  Path!  Both  written 
anonymously, — and  you  just  feel  the  human  heart 
throb  in  every  line." 

"I'll  not  be  cluttering  my  mind  with  the  likes 
of  that,  woman  dear!" 

"IVe  read  them  both,"  said  Jane,  slipping  out 
of  her  furs  and  cuddling  into  one  of  the  great  new 

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JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


chairs,  "and  I'm  afraid  I  think  they're  fearful 
piffle." 

"Miss  Vail!"  Her  face  snapped  back  into  its 
old  lines.  (Miss  Vail  really  mustn't  think  that 
because  she  was  so  situated,  financially,  that  she 
could  do  kind  and  generous  things — which  others 
would  do  if  they  could — that  her  word  was  law 
on  every  subject!) 

"I'll  have  to  be  reading  them,  to  decide  between 
the  two  of  you,"  said  Michael,  lighting  his  mel 
lowed  old  pipe. 

Miss  Ellis  winced  a  little  as  she  looked  at  her 
new  curtains. 

"But  it's  good  for  moths,"  said  Jane,  catching 
her  eye.  "No,  Michael,  you  needn't  fuss  up  your 
orderly  mind  with  anything  so  frivolous  and  dis 
tracting.  I  can  tell  you  the  gist  of  them  both  in 
a  few  well-chosen  phrases !  The  theme  of  both  is 
that  when  lovely — and  lonely — woman  stoops  to 
earning  her  own  living  she  finds — not  too  late,  but 
alas,  immediately — that  men  betray!  That  every 
prospect  pleases  and  only  man  is  vile !  These  two 
heroines  set  out  to  make  their  own  way;  their 
faces  are  their  fortune  and  very  nearly  their  fin 
ish!  One  is  a  very  young  girl,  the  other  an  un 
happy  wife,  fleeing  with,  and,  one  might  be  par 
doned  for  imagining,  protected  by,  a  young  child. 

163 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Each  is  a  pattern  of  dewy  innocence  and  deter 
mined  virtue,  but  no  matter  where  they  hie  or  hide, 
the  villains  still  pursue." 

* '  Of  course, ' '  said  Miss  Ellis  in  her  small,  smoth 
ered  voice,  "if  you're  going  to  make  a  joke  of 
it " 

"My  dear  Miss  Ellis,  it  'is  a  joke !  One  of  them 
gets  no  further  than  the  station  in  her  initial 
flight  when  she  is  accosted  by  a  young  millionaire 
— insulted.  (If  you  were  a  Constant  Eeader  of 
popular  fiction,  Michael  Daragh,  you'd  know  how 
difficult  it  is  for  millionaires  to  retain  the  shreds 
of  human  decency.)  And  that's  just  the  prelude, 
but  it  introduces  the  motif  which  runs  through  the 
entire  composition.  Staid,  middle-aged  husbands 
of  friends,  editors,  business  men,  authors, — Don 
Juans  all!  Eich  man,  poor  man,  beggar  man, 
thief,  doctor,  lawyer,  Indian  chief,  enmesh  the  road 
the  ladies  are  to  wander  in." 

"Well,"  said  Michael  Daragh,  shaking  his  head, 
"I'm  telling  you  there's  a  rare  lot  of  enmeshing, 
Jane  Vail." 

Emma  Ellis  wagged  an  eager  head.  "You  can't 
possibly  know,  in  your  sheltered  life " 

"But  I've  been  about  a  bit  in  my  day — (didn't 
I  come  from  my  verdant  village  to  the  wicked 
metropolis?) — and  I've  known  men  in  all  ages  and 

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JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


stages.  My  feeling  is  that  these  girls  must  have 
had  a  small  ' come-hither'  in  one  eye  at  least,  or 
occasionally  men  might  have  passed  the  butter 
without  a  sinister  meaning,  might  have  seen  them 
home  without  attempting  to  abduct  them!" 

"You  came  directly  to  Mrs.  Hills,  whom  you 
had  known  for  years,"  said  Emma  Ellis.  "And 
you  knew  that  Mr.  Harrison  who  helped  you  to 
place  your  writing,  and  you  had  enough  money  to 
live  on." 

"But  I've  roamed  the  city  alone,  all  hours  of 
night  or  day,  and  I  used  to  go  back  and  forth  to 
boarding-school  alone — a  day's  and  a  night's  jour 
ney,  and  abroad  I  used  to  trot  off  to  galleries  and 
museums  by  myself,  and " 

"But  you  always  had  your  background,  Jane 
Vail,  the  way  you  knew  how  safe  you  were." 

"You  can't  prove  these  books  are  foolish  by 
your  experience,  Miss  Vail."  Emma  Ellis  was 
glowing  from  the  Irishman's  championship. 

Jane  was  still  for  a  moment.  "No ;  I  don't  sup 
pose  I  can  prove  it  by  any  experience  I've  had  in 
the  past,"  she  said,  slowly,  "but  I  can  prove  it  by 
an  experience  I'm  going  to  have!" 

"Now  what  do  you  mean  by  that?"  Daragh 
wanted  to  know.  "Are  you  telling  your  for 
tune?" 

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JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Jane  sat  up  straight,  warm-cheeked,  excited. 
"No,  but  I'm  going  out,  alone  and  unaided,  under 
a  neat  new  name,  with  some  cheap,  plain  clothes 
in  a  cheap,  plain  trunk,  to  Chicago,  with  fifty  dol 
lars  only  between  me  and  the  cold  world, — and 
see  what  I  see!" 

"Well,  now,  God  save  us,  but  that's  the  mad 
plan,  surely!" 

"It  isn't  mad  at  all!  I  want  a  little  change, — 
I've  been  working  like  a  dynamo — and  it  will  be 
loads  of  fun  and  I'll  get  corking  copy  out  of  it." 

"It  won't  be  a  fair  test,"  the  superintendent 
protested.  ' '  You  '11  be — you,  all  the  time. ' ' 

"That's  very  nice  of  you,"  Jane  gave  her  her 
glad  boy's  grin,  "but  I  won't  be.  Don't  you  sup 
pose  I  have  imagination  enough  to  project  myself 
into  another  type?  For  a  month  I'll  support  my 
self  in  any  way  I  can,  nursery  governess,  mother's 
helper,  upstair-work,  shop,  anything  I  can  get. 
I'll  be  that  sort  of  girl,  dress,  diction,  everything. 
I'll  write  a  truthful  bulletin  of  my  luck  to  you  two, 
but  you  won't  have  any  address,  and  no  one  will 
know  that — let's  see  ...  Edna  Miles — isn't  that 
reasonable? — that  Edna  Miles  is  the  lucky  Jane 
Vail  who  wrote  Cross  Your  Heart  and  has  a 
wicked  balance  in  the  bank!"  She  pulled  herself 
up  out  of  the  depths  of  the  great  chair  and  put 

166 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


on  her  furs.  "I'm  quite  keen  about  it!  It's  go 
ing  to  be  more  fun  than  anything  I've  ever  done. 
Tell  Jane  good-by,  old  dears!  You'll  hear  from 
Edna  Miles  before  long!" 

"Wait  a  bit  till  we  talk  it  over,"  said  Daragh. 
"  'Tis  a  wild  plan,  I'm  telling  you,  will  waste 
your  time  and " 

But  Jane  was  out  of  the  door,  with  only  the 
echo  of  her  laugh  behind  her. 

"I  don't  think  she'll  really  do  it,"  said  Miss 
Ellis.  "When  she  comes  to  think  it  over,  and  real 
izes  how  uncomfortable  she'll  be " 

"She'll  be  doing  it  if  she  says  she  will,"  said 
the  Irishman,  gloomily,  "and  all  the  king's  horses 
and  all  the  king's  men  couldn't  be  stopping  her, 
the  way  she " 

Jane  thrust  her  bright  head  in  at  the  door 
again.  "I'll  play  fair,  and  I'll  prove  my  point, — : 
that  you  see  pretty  much  what  you  look  for,  that 
you  get  pretty  nearly  what  you  give,  that  common 
or  garden  kindness  is  mirrored  in  kindness,  that 
affection  fairly  boomerangs  back !  And  after  all, 
you  know,  the  thing  that  made  the  lamb  love  Mary 
so  is  the  axis  on  which  the  world  turns!  With 
which  pearl  of  wisdom  I  give  you  good-morrow!" 

This  time  she  went  in  earnest,  and  the  Settle 
ment  workers  were  left  alone  in  their  transformed 

167 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


parlor  to  consider  the  madness  or  merit  of  her 
little  plan.  Michael  saw  her  at  breakfast  next 
morning  but  she  was  gayly  uncommunicative  as 
to  her  plans,  and  that  night  Mrs.  Hills  reported 
that  her  star  boarder  (who  had  the  two  best  and 
biggest  rooms,  now,  and  a  dressing-room  and  bath 
and  her  own  telephone)  had  gone  west  for  a  month 
or  so  for  a  change. 

The  first  letter  came  two  days  later  and  was 
addressed  to  Miss  Emma  Ellis  at  the  Hope 
House  Settlement,  but  the  salutation  was  to  them 
both 

DEAR  EMMA  ELLIS  AND  MICHAEL  DARAGH, 

I  am  writing  this  on  the  train  as  the  intelligent 
readers  will  gather  from  the  chirography.  I  have 
just  had  my  breakfast,  and  it  was  funny  to  study 
the  menu  card  for  inexpensive  nourishment  with 
staying  powers.  I  shared  a  tiny  table  with  a  large 
gentleman  whose  rubicund  neck  hung  over  his  col 
lar  in  back  in  what  was  distinctly  not  the  line  of 
beauty,  a  chatty  soul,  conversation  not  at  all  im 
peded  by  food  .  .  .  needed  a  few  table  traffic  regu 
lations  .  .  .  The  noble  head  of  the  animal  to  whose 
tribe  he  belongs  beamed  from  his  lapel  and  his 
genial  heart  from  his  bright  little  eyes,  and  he 
worried  heartily  because  I  didn't  "tuck  away  a 
regular  breakfast." 

I  had  loads  of  fun  getting  my  adventure  trous- 

168 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


seau  together  yesterday !  I  flatter  myself  that  I 
quite  look  the  part, — my  meek,  brown  serge  and 
cotton  gloves  and  my  oldest  shoes  and  a  well- 
meaning  little  hat  which  took  more  courage  than 
all  the  rest.  I  couldn't  quite  rise — or  sink — to  a 
straw  suitcase.  I  have  my  shabbiest  one— with 
out  labels!  This  is  a  slow,  cheap  train  and  my 
bye-bye  box  was  in  the  upper  flat,  and  I  haven't 
spent  a  penny  for  chocolate  or  magazines,  and  I'm 
actually  beginning  to  be  Edna  Miles ! 

Next  Morning,  Nearly  in  Chicago. 

Last  night  the  beamish  Buffalo,  who  had  chatted 
off  and  on  all  day  and  had  worried  over  my  mod 
est  luncheon  from  across  the  aisle,  insisted  that 
dinner  was  to  be  not  only  with  but  "on"  him,  but 
I  only  consented  on  the  "with"  plan,  and  paid  my 
own  little  check  and  tip.  He  said  I  was  a  darned 
independent  little  piece  but  he  liked  my  spunk! 
He  asked  me  where  I  was  bound  and  I  said — sigh 
ing  a  little  for  good  measure,  Emma — that  I  was 
going  to  Chicago  to  earn  my  living.  Now  in  I 
or  The  Narrow  Path  he  would  at  once  have  given 
me  his  card  and  offered  to  "fix  me  up  with  some 
thing  at  the  office,"  but  the  Buffalo  merely  said 
"That  so!"  mistily  through  his  pie  a  la  mode  and 
that  "Chi"  was  a  great  little  old  berg. 

Isn't  that  one-in-the-eye  for  your  theory,  at 
the  start? 

Time  to  be  brushed  off.  Edna  Miles  gives  the 

169 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Ethiopian  only  a  quarter,  but  she  hasn  't  demanded 
any  service. 

JANE,  THE  HONEST  WORKING  GIRL. 

Same  Night,  9.30. 

Before  I  get  into  my  dolPs-size  bed  I'll  pen  these 
sleepy  lines.  My  room  is  just  about  the  dimen 
sions  of  a  bath  mat.  It  contains  the  aforemen 
tioned  bed  (I  shall  have  to  put  myself  into  it  with 
a  shoe  horn!)  an  chair,  on  which  I  sit,  and  a 
bureau.  The  room  must  have  been  built  around 
them  .  .  .  clearly  they  didn't  come  in  through  the 
door.  My  little  trunk  has  to  wait  outside  in  the 
hall  like  a  faithful  dog.  When  I  look  at  my  face 
in  the  mirror  I'm  sure  that  Heaven  will  protect 
this  particular  working  girl ;  that  my  face  will  be 
not  my  fortune  but  my  defender.  It  looks  as  if 
a  nervous  student  had  been  practicing  facial  sur 
gery  on  me.  The  carpet  is  just  the  color  of  dev 
iled  ham,  and  on  the  wall  is  a  shiny,  violent-colored 
picture  in  a  tarnished  gilt  frame  which  shows  a 
dangerously  fat  infant  in  a  crib  with  a  kitten 
standing  on  its  stomach. 

I  left  the  train  without  incident.  I  didn't  even 
see  the  Buffalo  to  say  good-by.  In  the  station  I 
purposely  wandered  about  a  bit  and  asked  ques 
tions  and  suddenly  a  brisk  little  woman  with 
'  '  Stranger 's  Friend ' '  on  her  bonnet  dashed  up  and 
asked  me  where  I  was  going.  I  told  her  I  was 
alone  in  her  great  city,  looking  for  work,  and  she 
told  me  not  to  worry, — that  she  would  look  after 
me,  and  she  has, — oh,  but  hasn't  she !  She  thought 

170 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


a  minnte  and  then  said,  "I  know  of  a  good  Chris 
tian  room  for  you."  I  was  so  intrigued  by  the 
thought  of  a  Christian  room  that  I  could  hardly 
wait  to  see  it.  (I'm  in  it.  This  is  it.) 

She  told  me  just  where  to  sit  and  wait  for  her, 
and  there  I  dutifully  sat,  clutching  my  luggage, 
and  she  ran  off  to  telephone  and  said  it  was  all 
fixed — the  lady  would  have  me,  and  it  would  be 
five  dollars  a  week  for  room,  breakfast  and  din 
ner.  And  she  would  put  me  on  the  right  car  and 
tell  me  just  where  to  get  off,  and  the  landlady 
would  direct  me  to  the  Employment  Agency  later. 
Just  as  she  was  seeing  me  to  the  street  I  spied  the 
Buffalo  in  the  offing,  waving  to  me,  and  I  waved 
back,  and  he  started  briskly  toward  me. 

"Who  is  that  man?"  the  Stranger's,  Friend 
wanted  to  know.  I  said  he  was  a  kind  gentleman 
I  had  met  on  the  train  but  I  didn't  know  his  name. 
Well,  the  next  thing  I  knew  she  had  whirled  me 
cleverly  into  an  eddy  of  crowd  and  thence  into 
the  Ladies'  Waiting-Room  and  was  regarding  me 
sternly.  "We  will  wait  here  until  he  goes  away. 
That  is  the  very  first  thing  to  remember,  my  dear. 
Never  talk  to  strange  men!"  And  I  said,  "Yes, 
ma'am,  I  will,"  and  "No,  ma'am,  I  won't,"  and 
presently  she  reconnoitered  and  said  that  the 
coast  was  clear,  and  put  me  on  my  car,  with  minute 
directions  for  finding  my  new  home.  ...  It  is 
easy  and  comforting  to  believe  that  there  is,  liter 
ally,  no  place  like  home,  no  other  place.  I  shall 
call  my  landlady  Mrs.  Mussel, — it  suits  her  so 

171 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


perfectly,  the  way  she  clings  to  her  drab  back 
ground,  and  closes  up  with  a  snap  at  every  ap 
proach.  I  daresay  she  means  well.  It  is  necessary 
to  believe  that  she  does.  She  states  that  she  sets 
only  a  plain  home  table  .  .  .  and  there  is  a  sort 
of  atmospheric  menu  card — coming  events  cast 
ing  their  savors  before,  stale  memories  of  the 
past.  .  .  . 

She  marched  me  straight  off  to  the  Intelligence 
Office.  There  was  nothing  for  me,  but  I  signed  up 
and  am  to  be  there  at  eight  in  the  morning.  And 
now,  unless  I  stop,  I  shall  fall  asleep  and  out  of 
my  chair  and  dash  my  brains  out  on  the  deviled- 
ham  carpet.  The  Laboring  Classes  keep  early 
hours. 

G— N— 

J. 

Thereafter  the  bulletins  came  thick  and  fast  to 
Hope  House,  always  to  the  two  of  them  together, 
now  addressed  to  Miss  Ellis  and  then  to  the  Irish 
man.  The  second  followed  swiftly  on  the  heels  of 
the  first* 

The  Next  NigU. 

I  went  early  to  the  Intelligence  Office.  (Intelli 
gence!)  The  other  Judy  O'Gradys  and  I  sat  in 
waiting  while  our  sisters  under  the  skin,  the  Colo 
nel's  ladies,  looked  us  over.  I  registered  for  nur 
sery  governess,  Mother's  Help,  second  maid,  or 

172 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


companion,  with  Mrs.  Mussel  and  the  S.F.  for  ref 
erence,  but  to-day  all  the  cry  for  help  was  for 
kitchen  mechanics ! 

When  I  reported  my  empty  net  to  Mrs.  Mussel 
on  returning,  she  emitted  a  little  desolate  cluck. 
She  foresees  her  Christian  room  rent  overdue, 
poor  thing.  The  kind  little  S.F.  dropped  in  and 
bade  me  be  of  good  cheer.  She's  a  brick,  and  I 
feel  so  guiltily  aware  of  tricking  her. 

I  tried  to  lure  my  landlady  out  to  a  movie,  but 
she  thriftily  refused.  She  was  watching  at  the 
window  when  I  came  home  to-night  and  just  at 
the  steps  I  dropped  my  five  cents '  worth  of  litera 
ture  and  a  man  who  was  passing  picked  it  up  for 
me.  He  glanced  at  the  page  as  he  handed  it  back 
and  grinned,  "That's  a  great  little  old  story!" 
And  I  agreed  cordially,  "It  sure  is !"  and  thanked 
him  and  ran  up  the  steps.  I  wish  you  could  have 
seen  my  landlady 's  face.  I  thought  at  first  I  would 
be  sent  to  bed  without  my  supper.  When  it  comes 
to  your  sex,  Michael  Daragh,  her  slogan  is — "Kun, 
daughter,  the  Indians  are  upon  us!" 
G— N— 

J. 

It  was  several  days,  then,  before  they  heard 
again  from  her,  and  Emma  Ellis  secretly  consid 
ered  that  Miss  Vail  was  without  doubt  giving  up 
and  coming  home,  but  Michael  Daragh  found  him 
self  angrily  anxious.  But  the  letter  was  reassur 
ing. 

173 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


On  the  Job. 
DEAR  PEOPLE, 

Edna  Miles  is  nursery  governess  to  the  two 
small  offspring  of  Mrs.  Arnold  Laney,  an  opulent, 
hard-finished  lady  who  cleverly  found  the  one 
pearl  in  the  oyster  bed,  meaning  me,  this  morning. 
I  dashed  thankfully  home  and  almost  jolted  Mrs. 
Mussel  out  of  her  gloom,  bought  two  gingham 
dresses  for  mornings  and  hied  me  to  my  new 
home.  I  Have  a  cot  in  the  nursery  and  one  bureau 
drawer  and  two  hooks  in  the  closet  and  wrath  in 
my  heart,  but  the  kiddies  want  a  story  now  and  I 
must  stop.  They  are  sallow,  fretty,  plain  little 
things,  but  I'm  conscientiously  liking  them  as  hard 
as  ever  I  can.  The  work  shouldn't  be  hard,  and 
I  have  forty  a  month  and  three  hours  every  Thurs 
day  afternoon  and  every  other  Sunday.  I  don't 
like  my  missus  very  much,  but  the  master  of  the 
house  is  a  typical  T.B.M.,  only  I  should  say,  from 
my  brief  glimpse,  that  things  at  home  make  him 
tireder  than  his  business  does.  I  eat  with  the 
children  in  the  breakfast  room  and  the  food  is 
rather  awful.  However,  the  game  is  young.  Wish 
me  luck,  old  dears! 

It  was  eight  days  before  another  letter  came, 
and  then  it  was  headed 

Back  in  my  Christian  Room! 
My  dears,  here  I  am !    I  lasted  just  exactly  one 

174 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


week.  But  I  don't  care.  I  didn't  wait  to  be  fired 
— I  went  off — spontaneous  combustion. 

I  did  my  honest  best  at  first.  It  was  a  horrible 
house,  spilling  over  with  fretful  people  and  fret 
ful  things.  There  wasn't  a  cool  space  to  hang 
your  eye  on  anywhere  on  the  walls;  you  had  to 
make  your  way  through  the  furniture  and  bric-a- 
brac  as  through  traffic.  The  food,  save  when  there 
were  guests,  was  wretched.  The  other  servants — 
a  cross  cook  and  a  sharp-tongued  second-girl — 
were  inefficient  and  lazy  and  quarrelsome. 

The  father  was  a  dim,  infrequent  person  who 
hardly  registered  on  the  family  film  at  all.  He 
looked  overworked  and  underfed  and  the  only  time 
I  ever  heard  him  speak  with  any  vigor  was  the 
night  before  I  left,  when  he  was  vehemently  in 
sisting  (their  room  was  just  across  the  hall  from 
the  nursery)  that  they  simply  had  to  cut  down  ex 
penses,  and  she  was  just  as  vehemently  maintain 
ing  that  it  couldn't  be  done. 

And  the  children!  If  any  one  had  told  me, 
eight  days  ago,  that  there  were  two  children  loose 
in  the  land  that  I  could  not  love,  I  should  have  done 
battle.  The  boy  was  the  sort  of  little  boy  who 
makes  you  feel  that  Herod  had  the  right  idea,  and 
the  girl  was  the  sort  of  little  girl  who  makes  you 
feel  it  was  a  pity  to  stop  with  the  slaughter  of 
the  male  infant. 

It  was  the  last  day  of  my  week.  The  youngsters 
and  I  had  had  a  bad  breakfast  and  a  skimpy,  cold 
luncheon,  and  I  was  bidden  to  dress  them  in  their 

175 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


fussiest  best  and  bring  them  in  at  the  tag  end  of 
Mrs.  Laney's  bridge  afternoon.     They  were  just 
sitting  down  to  tea  as  I  came  in.    Tea !    I  was  ab 
solutely  hungry  after  the  long  succession  of  mis 
erable  meals,  ready  to  recite  "Only  Three  Grains 
of  Corn,  Mother,"  with  moving  gestures,  and  the 
sallow  little  wretches  beside  me  were  clear  cases 
of  malnutrition.    "Well,  there  were  three  kinds  of 
delectable  sandwiches  and  consomme  with  whipped 
cream  and  chocolate  with  whipped  cream  and  an 
opulent  salad  and  wonderful  little  cakes — four 
kinds — and  candy  and  salted  nuts.     My  mouth 
watered  vand  I  know  my  nostrils  quivered.    First, 
I  blush  to  say,  I  thought  of  hungry  me,  and  then  I 
thought  of  the  undernourished  children,  and  then 
I  thought  of  the  badly  fed  and  badly  cared  for  and 
badly  treated  husband,  and  I  looked  over  the  other 
eight  or  ten  women  and  catalogued  them  at  once 
as  Mrs.  Laney's  type,  and  suddenly  I  decided  to 
give  myself  a  treat.    I  reached  calmly  over  and 
selected  a  handful  of  sandwiches  and  cakes  and 
gave  them  to  the  youngsters  and  sent  them  up  to 
the  nursery,  and  then,  my  dears,  with  what  solid 
satisfaction  you  cannot  possibly  guess,  I  told  my 
mistress  exactly  what  I  thought  of  her.    She  was 
aghast  and  scared;  she  thought  I  was  a  maniac,  a 
desperate  fanatic. 

"Edna,  Edna,"  she  gasped,  "be  quiet!     My 
guests — these  ladies " 

"Ladies!    Ladies!"  I  pounced  on  it.    "Do  you 
know  what  ' ladies'  means'?    Of  course  you  don't, 

176 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


— you're  much  too  ignorant.  It  means — 'loaf- 
givers',  providers,  dispensers  of  bounty,  care 
takers,  home-makers.  You — all  of  you — with  your 
lazy,  thick  bodies  trussed  into  your  straight  fronts 
and  your  fat  feet  crammed  into  bursting  pumps 
and  your  idle  hands  blazing  with  jewels"  (I  know 
I  was  bromidic  there,  but  my  Phillipic  was  too 
swift  to  be  polished)  "and  your  empty  heads  dyed 
and  marcelled,  you're  not  loaf-givers, — you're  not 
givers  at  all,  you  're  takers !  You're  loafers — cum- 
berers  of  the  earth — fat  slugs,  that 's  what  you  are, 
each  and  every  one  of  you!  You" — I  pointed  to 
Mrs.  Laney — "you  don't  even  see  that  your  chil 
dren  are  properly  fed!  You  don't  make  home  liv 
able,  let  alone  lovable  for  your  husband,  and  at 
this  moment" — I  swept  the  feast  with  a  fierce  and 
baleful  eye — "you're  a  thief!" 

She  shrieked  at  that  and  all  the  women  got  to 
their  feet.  It  was  as  if  I'd  thrown  a  bomb — and 
I  daresay  they  thought  I  might  at  any  instant. 

"A  thief,"  I  said,  "takes  what  doesn't  belong 
to  him,  and  this  doesn't  belong  to  you!  You're 
deep  in  debts, — bills  that  your  poor,  harassed  hus 
band  cannot  pay!" — and  before  she  could  emit 
the  furious  words  on  her  lips — "Oh,  no,  you're  not 
going  to  discharge  me!  You  can't,  for  I've  left 
already!  I  wouldn't  stay  another  night  in  your 
wretched  house,  I  wouldn't  eat  another  of  your 
wretched  meals.  You  may  keep  my  week's  wage. 
I  wish  you'd  buy  the  children  beefsteak  with  it 

177 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


but  I've  no  doubt  it  ^ill  go  for  cocktails  and 
henna !" 

Then,  while  they  gasped  and  jibbered  with  rage 
and  got  behind  each  other  and  shook  in  their  bulg 
ing  pumps,  I  turned  on  my  heel  and  made  a  stun 
ning  exit,  gathered  up  my  belongings  and  came 
away. 

There  was  no  welcome  on  Mrs.  Mussel's  mat,  but 
I'm  still  glowing.  Aren't  you  both  immensely 
pleased  with  me?  I  am  with  myself! 

J. 


CHAPTEE  XIV 

The  Next  Night. 
MY  DEARS, 

You  know,  the  woman  who  runs  the  Stupidity 
Bureau  didn't  think  me  a  heroine  at  all!  Quit 
ting  your  job  at  the  end  of  the  first  week,  going 
off  explosively,  as  I  did,  doesn't  endear  the  Hon 
est  Working  Girl  to  the  management.  It  simply 
isn't  done.  She  was  so  frigid  that  I  decided  to 
scratch  domestic  labor  from  my  list.  I  shall  join 
the  gainful  army  in  the  busy  marts. 

Mrs.  Mussel  telephoned  to  the  Stranger's  Friend 
and  the  kind  little  S.F.  bustled  right  out  and  took 
me  to  a  stereopticon  lecture  on  the  bee.  Subtle, 
wasn't  it?  Treatment  by  indirection. 

And  she  gave  me  a  note  to  a  department  store 
which  will  probably  take  me  on. 

Meanwhile, 

G— N— 

J. 

Next  Night. 

They  did,  dear  people,  they  did.  In  the  base 
ment.  In  the  kitchen  ware.  All  day  long  I  was 

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JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


learning  to  sell  clothespins  and  eggbeaters  and 
wringers  and  cookie  cutters  and  I  wish  you  could 
see  my  hands!  I  wonder  if  they?d  consider  me 
up  stage  if  I  wore  gloves?  I'd  better  not  chance 
it. 

They  were  all  ever  so  decent  about  helping  me. 
The  floorwalker  was  especially  kind.  (I  can  see 
you  fling  up  your  head  like  a  warhorse  at  the  smell 
of  powder,  Emma  Ellis,  but  he's  a  meek  young 
thing  who  likes  to  burble  of  his  baby.) 

But  I'm  a  woman  of  my  word  and  this  chronicle 
is  faithful  and  true.  Coming  home  on  the  L,  I  saw 
the  beamish  Buffalo,  and  he  saw  me  and  plunged 
to  me  through  the  crowd,  saying  gleefully,  "Say, 
girlie,  I've  thought  of  you  a  million  times,  and  I  — 
say,  listen,  I  got  in  awful  Dutch  with  the  wife 
about  you,  and  she  said"  —  but  I  slipped  nimbly 
into  my  local  and  the  door  slapped  shut  between 
us. 

Your  heroines,  Emma,  were  not  so  light  on  their 
feet.  But  I  honestly  felt  mean,  —  he  did  look  so 
friendly  and  fat. 

I'm  to  have  eight  a  week  in  my  basement.  Mrs. 
Mussel  gets  five  of  it  and  the  rest  I  may  waste  in 
riotous  living. 

Good  night! 


Three  Nights  Later. 
DEAB  M.  D.  AND  E.  E., 

Please  dash  downtown  and  have  a  million  ser- 

180 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


vice  medals  struck  off  and  then  rush  around  and 
pin  them  on  all  the  shop  girls  in  the  world !  The 
unutterable  weariness — the  aching,  burning,  sag 
ging,  sickening,  faint  tiredness! 

If  ever  again,  as  long  as  I  live,  I'm  cross  to  a 
saleswoman,  no  matter  how  cross  she  may  be  to 
me,  then  may  God  send  a  sudden  angel  down  to 
grasp  me  by  the  hair  and  bear  me  far  and  drop  me 
into  the  kitchen  ware  on  eight  a  week  and  my 
throbbing  feet! 

JANE, 

Saturday  Night. 

MY  BEAKS,  I'm  turned  off.  After  all  the  trying 
and  enduring  and  the  dead-tiredness,  I'm  turned 
off.  The  kind  little  floorwalker  hated  to  do  it. 
"Say,  listen,  sister,"  he  said,  "it's  like  this.  We 
gotter  let  somebuddy  go.  Holidays  comin',  people 
ain't  goin'  to  buy  kitchen  ware.  Sure  they  ain't. 
Plug  up  th'  leakin'  kettle  an'  buy  Mummer  th' 
rhinestone  combs!  Well,  you're  the  last  to  come, 
see  ?  You  gotter  be  the  first  to  go. ' ' 

I  bought  Mrs.  Mussel  a  shrinking  bunch  of  vio 
lets  to  soften  the  blow,  but  she  wondered  if  I 
couldn't  get  my  money  back  (her  money  she  fig 
ures,  poor  thing!)  if  I  hurried  right  downtown 
with  them  and  explained  that  I'd  changed  my 
mind. 

Heavens,  but  we  had  a  horrible  supper, 
down  indeed, 

JANE- 
181 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


Monday  Night. 
DEAR  PEOPLE, 

I'm  doing  my  best  to  uplift  Mrs.  Mussel,  but 
she's  the  undisputed  Queen  of  all  the  Glooms  and 
my  sprightly  efforts  fall  on  stony  ground.  For 
her  peace  of  mind  I  divulged  the  fact  that  I  have 
nearly  thirty  dollars  left  which  makes  me  really 
a  capitalist,  but  in  her  eyes  I  am  simply  an  Un 
employed. 

I  rush  into  the  house  glowing  and  braced  from 
a  brisk  walk  but  my  cheer  soon  gutters  out, — I 
might  as  well  try  to  illuminate  a  London  fog  with 
a  Christmas  tree  candle. 

I  try  to  help  her  with  her  errands  and  mar 
keting  and  to-day  I  was  staggering  home  under 
a  load  of  parcels  and  slipped  on  the  glassy  pave 
ment  just  in  front  of  the  house  and  fell  flat.  A 
smart  motor  which  was  spinning  by  slid  to  a  stand 
still  and  the  driver  jumped  out  and  ran  back  to 
me.  He  was  a  beautiful  big  youth  and  the  machine 
was  one  of  those  low,  classy,  daschhund  effects  in 
mauve.  THE  MAIDEN'S  DKEAM  picked  me  up  and 
all  my  packages  and  looked  us  all  over  to  make 
sure  we  weren't  damaged.  One  of  the  parcels 
contained  liver,  and  it  became  unwrapped.  .  ,  , 
(Dost  like  the  picture,  Jane  Vail  bearing  home 
the  liver  for  her  frugal  evening  meal!)  He  did 
it  up  very  deftly  and  then  he  asked  me  if  he 
couldn't  give  me  a  lift.  I  said  he  certainly  could 
but  for  the  fact  that  I  was  already  arrived  at  my 
destination.  Then  he  said,  "I'll  give  you  a  hand 

182 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


with  the  plunder,  then.  Which  house  ? ' ' — and  THE 
MAIDEN'S  DREAM  and  the  liver  and  I  mounted  Mrs. 
Mussel's  steps  together.  He  was  as  big  and  bonny 
as  the  impossible  young  persons  in  the  backs  of 
magazines,  and  he  said  it  was  tough  weather  to  be 
walking  and  I  said  it  was  tough  weather  to  be  out 
of  a  job,  and  he  said  that  was  tough  luck.  (See 
how  I  gave  him  an  opening,  E.  E.?)  I  thanked 
him  and  he  said  it  was  nothing  and  sped  down  to 
his  speedster  and  I  went  in  to  my  Christian  room. 
Mrs.  Mussel  had  been  doing  her  regular  Sister 
Anne  act  at  the  window  and  had  "seen  it  all,"  she 
assured  me  .  •  ,  I  will  omit  her  Phillipic.  .  .  . 

JANE,- 

Wednesday^ 

Still  no  gainful  occupation,  people !  Compared 
to  her  present  attitude,  Mrs.  Mussel  was  Jest  and 
tYouthful  Jollity  before.  And  the  blacker  things 
get  the  earlier  we  rise.  It  seems  to  me  that  no 
sooner  have  I  fitted  myself  compactly  into  my 
doll's-size  bed  and  closed  my  eyes  than  I  hear  her 
mournful  summons  to  another  day.  Oh,  the  inky 
gloom  of  these  murky  mornings!  I  know  that 
the  young  woman  who  said  so  lyrically,  "If  yoni're 
waking,  call  me  early,  call  me  early,  Mother  dear!" 
is  popularly  supposed  to  have  died  without  issue, 
but  that  is  a  misconception.  I  shrink  from  put 
ting  a  Spoon  River  scandal  on  her  mossy  tomb 
stone,  but  my  Mrs.  Mussel  is  her  lineal  descendant.; 
To-day  I  was  racked  by  a  yearning  for  the  flesh- 

183 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


pots.  I  made  myself  as  near  smart  as  possible 
and  flew  for  the  smartest  tea-room  on  Michigan 
Avenue.  If  I  could  stay  me  with  Orange  Pekoe 
and  comfort  me  with  toasted  crumpets  and  Eng 
lish  marmalade —  But  just  as  I  was  blithely  foot 
ing  it  across  the  threshold  the  S.F.  rose  up  behind 
me  like  a  genie  from  a  bottle  and  plucked  me 
back. 

"Edna  Miles,"  she  gasped,  "my  poor  child, 
you  can't  eat  in  there!  It's  the  most  expensive 
place  in  the  city.  Besides, — it  is  half-past  four, — 
you'll  spoil  your  dinner!" 

Very  peevishly  and  hollowly, 

JANE. 

Tlmrsday  Night.    On  the  Joyful  New  Job. 

Oh,  my  dear  people,  but  I  do  believe  in  Fairies ! 
I've  met  one  personally!  While  we  sat  at  melan 
choly  mending  this  morning,  my  doleful  landlady 
and  I,  after  my  fruitless  tour  of  the  agencies, 
who  should  dash  up  to  our  dull  door  but  THE  MAID 
EN  's  DREAM  !  In  his  shining  chariot !  Mrs.  Mus 
sel  said,  "Edna,  you  go  straight  upstairs  and  lock 
yourself  in  your  room  and  I'll  'tend  to  him!" 
But  I  was  at  the  door  before  he  had  time  to  ring 
the  bell. 

"Great  luck,"  he  said,  "  'fraid  you'd  be  gone. 
Got  a  job  yet?" 

"No." 

"Well,  I  was  telling  my  sister  about  you,  and 
she  thinks  she  has  just  the  place  for  you.  Want  to 

184 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


hop  in  the  boat  and  run  out  to  see  her  now  and 
talk  it  over?" 

Mrs.  Mussel  said  of  course  he  hadn't  any  sister, 
and  that  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself  and  I 
would  probably  never  be  seen  or  heard  of  again, 
and  she  knew  he  had  a  poison  needle  and  she  rang 
up  the  Stranger's  Friend,  but  before  she  got  her 
connection  I  was  spinning  up  the  North  Shore. 
THE  MAIDEN  's  DREAM  lives  in  a  young  palace  and 
Miss  Marjorie,  his  sister,  is  also  Peter  Pan's  sis 
ter.  He  explained  to  me,  as  we  went,  that  she  had 
been  thrown  from  her  horse  and  would  never  walk 
again,  and  so  she  "did  things  for  girls,  you  know 
— keeps  her  busy "  i 

She  looks  exactly  like  a  Fra  Angelico  angel! 
She  kept  me  to  luncheon  in  her  room  with  her — 
oh,  flesh-pots ! — hot  broth  and  tiny  chops  and  pop- 
overs  and  magic  salad  and  chocolate  and  ginger 
bread — and  told  me  about  this  extraordinary  job. 
Then  THE  MAIDEN'S  DREAM  whizzed  me  home  for 
my  things  (I  found  Mrs.  M.  and  the  S.F.  holding 
an  agitated  Direct  or  s9  Meeting),  but  when  the 
S.F.  heard  Miss  Marjorie's  last  name,  she  beamed 
and  brought  me  out  here. 

Miss  Marjorie  explained  that  I'm  to  be  more 
or  less  of  a  maid-companion  to  my  pretty  little 
mistress.  She's  a  limp  and  lovely  nymph  who's 
quarreled  with  her  husband  and  is  in  hiding  in 
this  funny  old  house  which  belonged  to  her  family, 
in  a  weird  neighborhood  where  none  of  her  own 
set  would  ever  discover  her.  The  house  is  com- 

185 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


f ortable  enough  inside,  but  the  locality  is  a  rather 
rough  one,  and  there  is  not  even  a  telephone. 
There  is  a  cook  and  a  cleaner-by-the-day,  and  the 
new  maid-companion,  so  she  should  be  reasonably 
well  looked  after. 

Whoops,  my  dears !    Fifty  dollars  a  month  and 
almost  nothing  to  do !   This  is  the  Promised  Land ! 
Joyfully, 

JANE. 

Monday. 
DEAR  PEOPLE, 

The  cook  is  cross*  because  she  drinks  and  she 
drinks  because  she  is  cross,  and  I  have  persuaded 
my  nymph  to  let  her  go  and  give  me  a  try  at  it* 
The  cleaner-by-the-day  will  do  the  grubby  things 
and  I  shall  like  it.  Time  to  get  luncheon!  Wish 
you  might  drop  in  to  sample  my  fare ! 

JANE* 

P.S.  There  is  the  most  engaging  grocery  boy 
with  red  hair  and  a  heart-twisting  grin.  I'm  not 
sure  I  wasn't  considering  him  when  I  turned 
kitchen  mechanic.  Denny  Dolan  is  his  name  and 
God  loves  the  Irish! 

J. 

Wednesday. 

It's  fun,  my  dears,  every  incH  of  it,  from  my 
little  lady's  breakfast  tray  to  Denny's  extra  trips 
with  things  he  "forgot." 

She  wanted  to  give  me  the  cook's  wages  in  ad- 

186 


JANE   JOUBNEYS   ON 


dition  to  mine,  because  she  says  I  do  all  the  work 
of  both  places,  but  I  modestly  compromised  on 
seventy-five  and  on  my  first  day  out  I'm  going  to 
take  Mrs.  Mussel  a  regal  present. 
Opulently, 

JANE. 

Friday* 
MY  DEAR  PEOPLE, 

My  nymph  is  ill  and  unhappy  and  grieving  for 
her  husband,  but  she  won't  send  for  him,  and  it's 
the  time  of  all  times  when  he  should  be  with  her. 
I  went  the  five  blocks  to  the  drug  store  and  tele 
phoned  Miss  Marjorie  about  her,  and  she  sent 
the  old  family  doctor,  and  when  he  left  her  eyes 
were  red,  and  I  suppose  he  was  urging  her  to 
make  it  up. 

She's  such  a  vague,  sweet,  helpless  thing!  This 
dreary  neighborhood  is  bad  for  her. 

Denny  Dolan  says  " there's  a  hard-boiled  bunch 
hangin'  around  here,"  and  warns  me  against  ven 
turing  out  after  dark,  even  to  the  post-box. 

JANE., 

P.S.  He  brought  me  a  paper  bag  of  gum  drops 
to-day ! 

A  Week  Later. 

Almost  too  busy  to  write,  my  dears,  what  with 
cooking  and  catering  and  maiding  and  companion 
ing.  Besides,  I'll  have  you  to  know  I'm  keeping 
company!  It's  walking  out  with  Denny  Dolan  I 
am!  I  get  the  cleaning  woman  to  stay  with  my 

187 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


nymph  for  an  hour,  and  I'm  stepping  out  with 
my  young  man.  Twice  to  the  movies  we've  been, 
and  had  dripping  ice-cream  cones  afterwards  ! 

So  no  more  at  present,  for  a  girl  would  be  think 
ing  of  her  beau  the  way  she  has  no  time  to  be 
palavering  on  paper  and  he  waiting  in  the  alley  ! 

GIRL* 


The  Next  Night. 

I  went  into  town  to-day  and  I  met  the  Buffalo 
just  as  I  was  leaving  a  Loop  car,  and  it  seemed 
only  the  fair  and  sporting  thing  to  let  him  speak 
to  me. 

He  beamed  more  beamishly  than  ever.  "Say, 
listen,  girlie,"  he  said,  "I've  had  the  deuce  of  a 
time,  losin'  you  every  time  I  find  you!  Say,  I 
was  startin'  to  tell  you  the  other  day,  —  the  wife 
gimme  fits  when  I  told  her  about  you.  Sure,  she 
did."  I  stood  very  still  and  looked  at  him  and 
listened.  "Yeah.  Calls  me  a  big  boob.  '  You  big 
boob/  she  says.  'You  sleeper!  Her  tellin'  you 
she  was  a  stranger  and  all  that,  and  lookin'  for 
work,  an'  you  never  give  her  my  address!'  Hon 
est,  she  trimmed  me  for  fair.  I  got  to  beat  it  now, 
but  here's  her  card,  see?  —  Telephoned  every 
thing,  and  she  wants  you  to  call  her  up.  She  wants 
to  have  you  out  to  dinner,  Aggie  does,  and  have 
you  meet  some  of  her  lady  friends  and  get  you 
acquainted.  Say,  ring  her  up,  will  you,  sure? 
Gee,  she  was  some  sore  at  the  old  man!  Bye!" 

He  leaped  into  his  Express,  and  vanished,  and 
I  could  have  sat  down  in  the  midst  of  the  scurry- 

188 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


ing  crowd  and  wept  with  shame  and  joy  and  grati 
tude.  I  rang  Aggie  tip  at  once,  and  I  could  just 
see  her,  from  her  cozy  voice. 

How  about  it,  Emma  Ellis?  Do  I  score?  I'm 
dining  with  them  soon. 

JANE. 

P.S. — Do  you  realize  that  my  month  is  up  f  And 
my  point  is  won?  But  I'm  going  to  stay  on  and 
see  my  nymph  safely  through  her  dark  days. 

A  Week  Later. 

Denny  and  I  went  to  see  "Twin  Hearts"  this 
evening  and  in  the  mel tinge  st  part  of  the  film  he 
held  my  hand.  I  thought  it  was  about  time  to  un 
mask,  so  I  said — retrieving  my  hand — that  I 
wasn't  a  regular  kitchen  mechanic  but  a  volun 
teer. 

"My  real  job,"  I  said,  "is  writing.  I'm  a 
writer." 

"Sure  you  are!"  he  chuckled  delightedly* 
"You'n  me  both!  I  wrote  this  spiel  here!  I'm 
Henry  W.  Dickens!" 

I  couldn't  seem  to  convince  him  of  anything  but 
that  I  was  ' '  some  little  kidder. ' '  He  undertook  to 
tell  the  world  about  that.  To-morrow,  in  the  gar 
ish  light  of  day,  when  he  dumps  his  neat  parcels 
on  my  spotless  table,  I  must  really  explain 
that 

The  Next  Afternoon. 
DEAR  E.  E.  AND  M.  D., 

I'm  perished  for  sleep,  but  I'll  write  what  I 

189 


JANE    JOUKNEYS   ON 


can.  Just  as  I  got  to  "that"  above,  my  nymph 
called  me.  She  was  ill, — terribly,  terrifyingly  ill, 
and  even  I  saw  that  there  wasn't  an  instant  to 
lose.  And  not  a  soul  to  send  to  the  telephone. 

I  couldn't  leave  her — but  I  had  to  leave  her! 
It  didn't  enter  my  head  to  be  afraid — only  of  not 
getting  the  doctor  in  time.  Denny's  warnings 
were  forgotten.  I  had  done  one  block  of  the  five 
when  a  man  stepped  out  of  a  dark  hallway,  and 
halted  in  front  of  me. 

Even  then,  until  he  spoke,  I  wasn't  really  fright 
ened.  But  when  he  did, — I  tell  you,  Emma  Ellis 
and  Michael  Daragh,  all  the  horror  and  wicked 
ness,  all  the  filth  and  sin  of  the  world  seemed  to 
be  closing  in  on  me,  stifling  me,  blinding  me,  hob 
bling  my  feet.  All  the  windows  about  me  were 
blank  and  black;  a  block  and  a  half  ahead  of  me 
was  a  blaze  of  light — Boldini's  Saloon — "a  rotten 
bad  one,"  Denny  had  said. 

I  ran,  oh,  how  I  ran,  but  he  ran,  too,  faster, 
faster.  I  tried  to  reach  out  for  something  to  cling 
to — for  a  shield — Just  fragments  came — angels 
charge  over  tJiee  .  .  .  snare  of  the  fowler  .  .  . 
terror  "by  night.  .  .  ." 

We  were  almost  at  Boldini's  Saloon,  and  I 
couldn't  run  any  faster,  and  twice  he  had  caught 
hold  of  my  arm.  .  .  .  Suddenly  another  fragment 
came — "in  all  thy  ways  .  .  ."  All!  I  ran  through 
the  swinging  doors  into  the  saloon,  out  of  the  hor 
rid,  dark  night  into  the  horrid  light,  and  I  stumbled 
and  went  down  onto  my  knees  and  pulled  myself 

190 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


up  by  the  bar,  and  I  heard  my  voice — "Men — 
men — Please — I  was  going  to  the  drug  store  to 
telephone — a  woman  is  sick — a  baby — she's  all 
alone  there — and  this  man — this  man — "  I  hung 
onto  the  edge  of  the  bar  and  everything  spun 
dizzily  round  with  me,  but  I  saw  three  men  bolt 
through  the  door  and  fall  upon  him. 

Michael  Daragh,  I  suppose  some  day  I  can  re 
member  with  horror  how  they  beat  him,  but  I 
can't  now.  I  can't  be  sorry  for  him.  I  can't  be 
anything  but  gloatingly  glad.  They  were  drunk, 
all  of  them,  but  when  they  finished  with  him  they 
escorted  me  to  the  drug  store,  one  on  each  side 
and  one  marching  on  before  and  banged  up  the 
night  man  and  while  I  telephoned  the  doctor  they 
waited  for  me,  and  then  they  took  me  home. 

I  wanted  to  scream  with  laughter — they  couldn't 
walk  straight,  two  of  them — and  I  wanted  more  to 
cry, — "angels  charge  over  tJiee — "  They  were! 
I  shook  hands  with  them  and  thanked  them,  and 
they  mounted  guard  outside  the  house  and  I  flew 
in  to  my  lady. 

Well,  presently  the  doctor  came,  and  then  the 
nurse  came,  and  then  Roderick  Frost  III  came, 
a  frantic  young  man  with  penitent  eyes,  and  pres 
ently  Roderick  Frost  IV  came,  a  bad-tempered 
young  tenor  who  protested  lustily  at  being  born 
in  a  spot  so  far  removed  from  his  own  rightful 
social  orbit,  and  then  morning  came,  and  I  fell 
into  bed  for  three  hours  of  sodden  sleep. 

Now  the  haughty  chef  from  the  Lake  Shore 

191 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Drive  is  here,  taking  royal  charge,  and  Edna 
Miles'  job  is  over.  I'm  going  to  see  little  Miss 
Marjorie  and  'fess  up,  and  take  farewell  of  Mrs. 
Mussel  and  my  kind  S.F.,  and  then,  my  dears,  I'm 
coming  home, — home  with  palms  of  victory. 

Haven't  I  won,  Emma  Ellis'?  Haven't  I  won, 
Michael  Daragh?  Do  you  dare  to  count  the  one 
exception  that  gloriously  proved  the  rule?  Didn't 
my  three  unsteady  angels  more  than  make  up  for 
one  poor  devil?  Nearly  six  weeks  alone  in  the 
wide,  cold  world,  dozens  of  kindly  conductors  and 
policemen  and  L  guards  and  clerks  and  fellow  citi 
zens,  the  kind  little  floorwalker  and  Denny  Dolan, 
and  the  beamish  Buffalo  and  THE  MAIDEN'S 
DREAM,  and  my  three  avenging  knights! 

Own  up,  old  dears!  Admit  you're  beaten!  7 
have  walked  The  Narrow  Path  and  found  it  clean 
and  safe  and  good! 

Triumphantly — gloatingly — 

JANE. 


CHAPTER  XV 

IT  would  be  the  private  opinion  of  Emma 
Ellis  to  her  dying  day  that  Miss  Vail  had 
suppressed  a  good  deal  and  had  embellished 
a  good  deal,  in  that  dramatic  way  of  hers.  She 
had  written  so  much  fiction  and  lived  so  much  in 
her  imagination  that  it  was  doubtful  if  she  could 
(with  the  best  intentions)  tell  the  exact  and  un 
adorned  truth  about  anything.  Besides,  even  if 
things  had  happened  exactly  as  she  had  chronicled 
them,  it  was  not  a  fair  test  anyway ;  it  was  a  very 
different  case  from  those  of  the  heroines  in  the 
two  stories.  Jane  Vail  knew  she  was  Jane  Vail, 
with  an  assured  position  in  the  literary  world 
and  a  large  income,  and  that  the  whole  thing  was 
only  play-acting  after  all.  But  with  Mr.  Daragh 
entirely  convinced  and  more  maudlinly  worship 
ful  than  ever,  what  was  the  use  of  saying  any 
thing?  But  she  could  think. 

Jane  swung  happily  into  her  fourth  year  in 
New  York,  flying  home  to  Sarah  Farraday  for 
Christmas,  meeting  the  young  year  with  high 

193 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


hopes  and  canny  plans,  a  definite  part,  now,  of 
the  confraternity  of  ink.  Her  circle  widened  and 
widened;  important  persons  came  down  from 
their  heights  of  achievement  to  make  much  of  her, 
and  the  late  spring  saw  the  successful  launching 
of  another  gay  little  play,  and  early  fall  found 
her  deep — head,  hands,  and  heart — in  her  first 
serious  novel,  but  she  found  amazing  margins  of 
time  for  Eodney  Harrison,  for  Hope  House,  for 
Michael  Daragh. 

Sarah  Farraday,  resigned  but  never  reconciled, 
shared  vicariously  in  the  life-more-abundantly 
which  had  come  to  her  best  friend,  and  she  al 
ways  said,  with  a  small  sigh,  that  nothing  Jane 
did  or  said  could  ever  surprise  her  again,  but  she 
was  nevertheless  startled,  after  a  long  silence,  to 
receive  a  fat  letter  bearing  a  Mexican  stamp. 

On  a  Meandering  Train,  "bound,  more  or  less  for 
Guadalajara,  it  began,  and  was  dated  December 
the  seventh. 

SALLY  DEAB, 

You  must  be  thinking  me  quite  mad  at  last,  not 
hearing  from  me  for  weeks,  and  then — this !  Like 
the  old  woman  in  the  fairy  tale, — "Can  this  be  If" 

I  decided  all  in  a  wink  to  fly  to  California  and 
visit  my  mother's  cousins,  the  Budders.  I  needed 
a  drastic  change,  Sally.  I  haven 't  had  a  real  play- 

194 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


time  for  a  year,  and  it's  four  years  and  a  month 
since  I  left  home  for  New  York — can  yon  realize 
it?  Four  lucky,  beautiful,  shining  years.  But 
oh,  I'm  tired,  old  dear!  So  tired  that  my  brain 
creaks.  I  think  there  comes  a  time,  in  creative 
work,  for  playing  hooky.  Write  and  run  away 
and  live  to  write  another  day.  So  I  wired  the 
Budders  I  was  coming  and  took  the  train  the  same 
day,  and  when  I  reached  San  Francisco  I  found 
them  all  packed  up  for  this  Mexican  trip, — indeed, 
they  were  sitting  on  their  trunks  with  a  tentative 
ticket  for  me  in  their  hands.  And  I  was  pleased 
pink  to  come.  The  Budders  (doesn't  Budder  sowd 
as  if  I  ad  a  code  id  by  ed?)  are  nice,  comfortable 
creatures, — the  sort  who  are  called  the  salt  of  the 
earth  but  in  reality  aren't  anything  so  piquant. 
They're  the  boiled  potatoes  and  graham  bread  and 
rice  pudding.  You,  now,  Sally  darling,  are  the 
angel  cake,  and  there's  not  half  enough  of  you; 
I'm  the  olives  and  anchovies  and  caviar  ...  a 
little  goes  a  long  way  .  .  .  and  Michael  Daragh 
is  the  rich  and  creamy  milk  of  human  kindness, 
always  being  skimmed  by  a  needy,  greedy  world. 
Behold  me,  then,  ambling  through  Mexico,  a 
Spanish  phrase  book  in  my  lap  and  peace  in  my 
heart. 

Adios  ! 

JANE. 

P.S.  I  have  just  read  this  over,  Sarah.  Fic 
tion  of  purest  ray  serene.  I'm  not  tired.  I  don't 
need  to  play.  It  was  a  very  bad  time  for  me  to 

195 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


leave, — my  work  screamed  after  me  all  across  the 
continent.  I  had  to  fly  for  my  life  and  liberty. 

Sally,  friend  of  my  youth,  patient  receptacle  of 
all  my  moods  and  tenses,  I  was  falling  in  love. 
At  least,  I  felt  myself  slipping.  All  these  four 
years  I  have  intended  Michael  Daragh  to  be  an 
interesting  character  part  in  my  drama  of  New 
York,  down  in  the  cast  as  "her  best  friend."  He 
is  threatening  to  take  the  lead,  and  it  isn't  going 
to  do  at  all.  Sally,  the  man's  goodness  is  simply 
ghastly;  I  couldn't  endure  having  a  husband  so 
incontestibly  better  than  I  am.  Why,  you  know 
that  all  my  life  I've  been  "a  wonderful  influence 
for  good"  with  mankind!  Didn't  I  always  coax 
sling  shots  away  from  bad  little  boys  and  make 
them  sign  up  for  the  S.P.C.A.?  And  wasn't  I  al 
ways  getting  bad  big  boys  to  smoke  less  and  drink 
less  and  pass  ex'es  and  dance  with  wallflowers  and 
write  to  their  mothers?  Keally,  when  I  think  of 
the  twigs  I've  bent  and  the  trees  I've  inclined,  I 
feel  that  there  should  be  a  tablet  erected  to  me 
somewhere.  But  the  woman  who  weds  Michael 
Daragh,  I  don't  care  who  she  is  (lie:  I  care  enor 
mously!)  will  always  be  burning  incense  to  him  in 
her  lesser  soul,  always  straining  on  tiptoe  to 
breathe  the  air  in  which  he  lives  and  moves  and 
has  his  being. 

Michael  Daragh,  that  time  he  renounced  the 
fleshpots  and  "took  to  bride  the  Ladye  Povertye 
with  perfect  blithenesse,"  did  it  so  thoroughly  that 
any  literal  spouse  will  be  only  a  sort  of  morga- 

196 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


natic  wife,  anyway.  I  don't  mean  that  he  might 
not  adore  her  and  be  wonderful  to  her  after  he'd 
ministered  unto  a  drove  of  sticky  immigrants  and 
a  Settlement  full  of  drab  down-and-outs  and  an 
Agnes  Chatterton  Home  full  of  Fallen  Sisters,  but 
he  would  really  expect  her  to  prefer  having  him 
assist  at  the  arrival  of  the  eleventh  little  Lascano- 
witz  in  a  moldy  cellar  to  keeping  a  birthday  dinner 
date  with  her. 

Now,  Sally  dear,  in  these  four  years  since  I  left 
my  village  home  (soft  chords)  I  have  labored 
somewhat,  and  I  confess  that  I  have  frankly 
looked  forward  to  matrimony  as  a  sort  of  glorified 
vacation.  I  couldn't  ever  give  up  my  work,  of 
course, — it  wouldn't  give  me  up — and  I  don't 
crave  to  '  *  sit  on  a  cushion  and  sew  a  fine  seam  and 
live  upon  strawberries,  sugar  and  cream"  exclu 
sively,  but  somewhere  in  the  middle  ground  be 
tween  that  and  washing  dishes  and  "feeding  the 
swine,"  I  did  visualize  a  sort  of  gracious  lady 
leisure,  with  a  vague,  worshipful  being  in  the  back 
ground  making  me  "take  care  of  myself." 

Therefore,  feeling  myself  melting  unduly  on  the 
Irish  question,  I  fly  while  there  is  yet  time. 
Much  love,  old  dear! 

JANE. 

December  8th. 

That  was  a  silly  screed,  yesterday,  Sally  dear 
est,  but  getting  it  off  my  chest  was  a  great  relief. 
And  at  that  it  wasn't  a  complete  confession. 

197 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


There  was  another  reason  for  a  strategic  retreat. 
The  other  reason  was  Rodney  Harrison.  Yes, 
the  House  of  Harrison  has  capitulated,  hand 
somely,  lavishly,  Mater  and  Pater  as  well,  but  I'm 
very  sure  that  I  can  never  be  theirs.  Just  as  I 
feel  that  Michael  Daragh  is  too  good  for  me,  so  do 
I  feel  that  Rodney  Harrison  is  not  quite  good 
enough!  I  mean  by  that  not  quite  concerned 
enough  with  drying  the  world's  tears.  With — as 
G.B.S.  says — "a  character  that  needs  looking  after 
as  much  as  my  own,"  I  feel  I  should  have  some 
one  a  little  less  Philistine  than  the  cheerful  Rod 
ney.  At  any  rate,  I  needed  perspective  on  the 
whole  situation,  and  who  knows  but  I  shall  meet 
my  nice  new  fate  on  this  romantic  pilgrimage? 
(Sounds  more  like  eighteen  than  twenty-eight, 
doesn't  it!)  But,  seriously,  I've  been  so  con 
stantly  with  Michael  Daragh  and  Rodney  in  these 
four  years  that  I  know  every  dip  and  spur,  every 
line  and  leaf  of  their  mental  scenery ;  fresh  fields 
and  pastures  new  are  what  I  need.  And  "one 
meets  so  many  delightful  people  in  traveling — " 
as  witness  the  good  Budders  and  their  niece,  Miss 
Vail  ('sh  .  .  .  they  say  she's  a  writer!) 

Something,  which  is  to  say,  somebody,  may  turn 
up  at  any  moment. 

Yours,  Micawber-ing, 

J. 

RS.  I  trust  you  won't  expect  to  glean  any 
•useful  information  or  statistics  about  Mexico  from 
these  chronicles?  The  Budders  are  deep  in  his- 

198 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


tories  and  guidebooks  but  I  know  not  whether  the 
Chichimecs  were  people  or  pottery  and  I  hope  I 
never  shall! 

P.S.  II.  Cousin  Dudley,  having  just  returned 
from  the  smoker,  reports  chatting  with  a  most 
interesting  young  civil  engineer 

December  9th. 

We  are  now  so  late,  Sally  dear,  that  we  have 
lost  all  social  standing ;  we  slink  into  sidings  and 
wait  in  shame  for  prompt  and  proper  trains  to 
bustle  by.  But  I  don't  mind.  At  this  rate  I  shall 
be  able  to  converse  rippingly  in  Spanish  by  the 
time  we  reach  Guadalajara.  Cousin  Dudley  knows 
a  professor  person  there  who  will  help  us  to  plan 
our  trip. 

Spanish  is  deliciously  easy.  It  seems  rather 
silly  to  make  it  a  regular  study  in  our  schools. 

I  adore  the  stations,  especially  at  night, — black 
velvet  darkness  studded  with  lanterns  and  torches 
and  little  leaping  fires ;  old  blind  minstrels  whining 
their  ballads;  the  mournful  voices  of  the  sweet 
meat  venders  chanting — "Dulce  de  Morelia!" — 
"Cajeta  de  Celaya!"  These  candies,  by  the  way, 
are  the  most 

December  llth. 

Alas,  muy  Sally  mia,  when  I  meant  to  add  a  few 
paragraphs  to  this  letter  diary  every  day !  I  was 
interrupted  just  there  by  Cousin  Dudley  who  came 
in  with  his  civil  engineer,  and  there  hasn't  seemed 

199 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


to  be  any  spare  time  since.  (How  is  that  for  a 
demonstration  of  Mr.  Burroughs'  well-known 
theory  about  folding  your  hands  and  waiting  and 
having  your  own  come  to  you?) 

He  is  an  extremely  civil  engineer  and  very  easy 
to  look  at.  He  has  close-cropped,  bronzy  brown 
hair  and  gentian-blue  eyes  and  his  skin  is  burned 
to  a  glowing  copper  luster.  He  is  just  idling 
about,  slaying  time  during  a  vacation  too  brief 
to  warrant  his  going  home  to  Virginia,  and  he 
shows  strong  symptoms  of  willingness  to  act  as 
guide,  philosopher  and  friend  to  wandering  Touri. 
We  are  actually  going  to  reach  Guadalajara  to 
morrow!  Some  one  must  be  giving  us  a  tow. 
Adios,  muy  amiga  mia! 

JUANA. 

P.S.  The  C.E.  is  going  to  hear  my  Spanish  les 
son  now. 

P.S.  II.  Isn't  NETZAHUALCOYOTL  a  cunning 
word? 

Guadalajara, 
December  12th. 
QUEBIDA  SARITA, 

We  sight-saw  all  morning  in  this  lovely,  lan 
guid,  ladylike  city,  and  this  afternoon  we  called 
on  Cousin  Dudley's  friend,  Professor  Morales  and 
his  family.  They  were  expecting  us  and  as  our 
coche  drew  up  at  the  curb,  the  door  flew  open  and 
el  profesor  flew  out,  seized  Cousin  Ada's  hand, 
held  it  high,  and  led  her  into  the  house,  minuet 

200 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


fashion.  The  senora,  a  mountainous  lady  with  a 
rather  striking  mustache  and  the  bosom  of  her 
black  gown  sprinkled  with  a  snow  fall  of  powder 
which  couldn't  find  even  standing  room  on  her 
face,  conducted  Cousin  Dudley  in  the  same  man 
ner,  and  I  fell  to  the  lot  of  a  beautiful  youth. 

The  sola  was  crazy  with  what-nots  and  knick- 
knacks  and  bamboo  furniture  and  running  over 
with  people — plump,  furrily  powdered  senoritas 
with  young  mustaches,  cherubs  with  gazelle  eyes 
and  weak-coffee-colored  skin,  and  the  oldest 
woman  ever  seen  out  of  a  pyramid. 

There  was  an  agonizing  time  getting  us  all  in 
troduced  and  a  still  more  agonizing  time  of  stage 
wait  afterward.  Then  Cousin  Dudley  (I  thirsted 
for  his  gore)  said  chirpily,  "My  niece  has  learned 
to  speak  Spanish,  you  know." 

My  dear,  it  made  the  Tower  of  Babel  seem  like 
"going  into  the  silence. ' '  Everybody  in  that  room 
talked  to  me  at  once.  In  my  frantic  boast  and 
foolish  word  about  the  easiness  of  Spanish  it  had 
never  occurred  to  me  that  people  would  talk  to 
me!  If  the  fiends  had  only  held  their  tongues  and 
let  me  ask  them  to  have  the  kindness  to  do  me  the 
favor  to  show  me  which  way  was  the  cathedral,  or 
whether  it  was  the  silk  handkerchief  of  the  rich 
Frenchman  which  the  young  lady  ?s  old  sick  father 
required,  all  would  have  been  well,  but  instead — 
a  madhouse ! 

Then  came  rescue.  The  sweetest,  softest  pussy 
willow  of  a  girl  with  a  delicious  accent  said,  "So 

201 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


deed  I  also  feel,  in  the  conevent,  when  they  all  at 
once  spik  ingles!"  She  was  in  pearl  gray,  no  pow 
der,  no  mustache,  slim  as  a  reed.  Her  gentle  name 
is  Maria  de  Guadalnpe  Eosalia  Merced  Castello, 
but  they  call  her  "Lupe"  ("Loopie,"  Sally,  not 
Loop!)  She  is  a  penniless  orphan,  just  visiting 
her  kin  at  present,  but  lives  with  an  uncle  in  Guan 
ajuato  (where  delves  my  C.E.  at  his  mine)  and  she 
is  in  disgrace  because  of  an  undesirable  love  af 
fair,  so  the  senora  told  Cousin  Ada.  They  are 
taking  us  to  the  Plaza  to-night,  and  meanwhile 
we  sup. 

Delightedly, 


P.S.  11.30P.M.  The  Plaza  is  still  the  parlor  in 
Guadalajara  and  it  's  enchanting  !  The  staid  back 
ground  of  the  chaperones  in  coches,  the  slow  pro 
cession  of  youths  and  maidens,  two  and  two,  boys 
in  one  line,  girls  in  another,  the  eager,  forward 
looks,  the  whisper  at  passing,  the  note  slipped 
from  hand  to  hand,  the  backward  glances,  all 
classes,  and  over  all,  through  all,  the  pleading, 
pulsing  call  of  the  music. 

Sarah,  never  did  you  make  melody  like  that, 
decent  New  Englander  that  you  are  !  It  's  so  poig 
nantly  searching-sweet,  so  sin  verguenza  (without 
shame!)  El  profesor  had  them  play  La  Golon- 
drina,  their  national  anthem,  really,  which  means 
merely  The  Swallow,  to  start  with,  but  everything 
else  a  hungry  heart  can  pack  into  it.  Lupe  and 
I  walked  together  and  she  was  pouring  out  her 

202 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


dewy  young  confidences  before  we'd  been  twice 
ronnd  the  circle.  Montagues  and  Capulets !  The 
rich  uncle  who  has  reared  her  is  the  bitterest 
enemy  of  her  Emilo's  papa  who  is  a  general  of 
revolutionary  tendencies.  "Me,"  she  said  with  a 
shrug,  "I  can  never  marry!  Vestire  los  santos!" 
(Which  means,  "I  shall  dress  the  saints!"  Old 
maids  having  unlimited  time  for  church  work!) 
Buenas  noches, 

J. 


December  14th. 
DEAKEST  SALLY, 

The  loveliest  idea  came  and  sat  on  my  chest  in 
the  pearly  dawn!  I'm  going  to  take  Maria  de 
Guadalupe  Eosalia  Merced  Castello  with  me  on 
this  tour  as  Spanish  teacher!  She  accepted  with 
tears  of  joy  and  the  Morales  family  bore  up 
bravely.  They  will  be  frankly  glad  of  a  few 
nights'  sleep, — Lupe's  gallants  come  nightly  to 
"make  a  serenade," — not  a  lone  guitar  but  the 
tenor  from  the  opera  house  and  a  piano  trundled 
through  the  streets.  The  more  costly  the  musical 
ingredients,  the  greater  the  swain's  devotion! 

To-day  we  went  with  various  members  of  the 
Morales  clan  to  visit  the  Hospicio  (see  the  Bud- 
ders  for  dates  and  data !).  I  only  remember  a  girl 
of  twelve  who  sat  by  herself  in  the  playground, 
the  small,  cameo,  clear  face  with  its  sorrowing 
eyes,  the  pathetic  arrogance  in  the  lift  of  the  chin, 
her  withdrawal  from  the  other  noisy  little  or- 

203 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


phans.  I  knew  she  must  have  a  story,  and  when 
I  asked  the  pretty  sister  in  charge,  she  burst  into 
eager  narrative. 

Twelve  years  ago,  approximately,  a  young 
physician  was  called  at  night  to  the  peon  quarter, 
and  to  his  amazement  found  that  his  patient  was 
a  lady,  a  girl  whose  patrician  manner  was  proof 
against  all  her  terror  and  suffering.  She  utterly 
refused  to  look  at  her  child  and  threatened  to 
smother  it  if  he  left  it  within  her  reach.  He  took 
it  to  the  Hospicio  to  be  cared  for  temporarily,  and 
a  few  days  later,  going  as  usual  to  attend  the 
young  mother,  he  found  her  vanished.  There  was 
a  lavish  fee  left  for  him,  and  a  note,  bidding  him 
insolently  to  banish  the  whole  matter  from  his 
memory.  The  neighbors  knew  only  that  they 
had  heard  a  coche  in  the  dead  of  night.  The  child, 
whom  they  named  in  their  mournful  fashion  Do 
lores  Tristeza — sorrows  and  sadness — was  always 
the  doctor's  protegee.  One  day  he  came  in  great 
excitement  to  tell  the  pretty  sister  the  sequel.  He 
had  been  summoned  the  night  before  to  the  bed 
side  of  a  dying  man, — one  of  the  great  names  of 
the  city.  The  family  was  grouped  about  the  father 
and  among  the  weeping  daughters  he  espied  his 
mysterious  patient!  Afterward,  when  he  was 
leaving,  she  looked  him  squarely  in  the  eye  and 
said,  "You  are  a  newcomer  in  Guadalajara?  You 
must  be,  for  I  have  never  seen  you  before!"  He 
told  no  one  but  the  sister  at  the  Hospicio  and  not 
even  to  her  did  he  divulge  the  name,  but  two  days 

204 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


later,  in  a  lonely  suburb  of  the  city,  he  was  shot 
and  killed. 

Sarah,  doesn't  that  make  your  scalp  creep? 
Dolores  Tristeza!  "Sorrows  and  Sadness!"  I 
dashed  out  and  bought  her  a  gorgeous  doll  and 
she  gave  me  a  gracious  smile  but  she  was  not  at 
all  overcome.  She  clearly  feels  her  quality. 
Loads  of  people  have  wanted  to  adopt  her  but 
she  would  never  go  with  them. 

And  to-morrow  we  are  off  to  Queretaro  to  drop 
a  silent  tear  on  Maximilian's  dressy  little  tomb, 
the  Budders,  Lupe,  the  C.E.  and  I.  We  are  gath 
ering  as  we  roll  ! 

Adios,  querida  miat 


Queretaro. 

I've  paid  proper  tribute  to  that  poor  pawn  of 
Empire  who  lived  so  poorly  and  who  died  so  well, 
but  the  real  zest  of  this  journey  is  Lupe!  Fresh 
every  hour!  Her  mental  processes  are  delicious. 
I  was  lamenting  her  frank  delight  in  bull-fights 
and  she  said,  "Oh,  the  firs'  time  I  see  horse  keel,' 
I  am  ver'  seek.  Now  they  keel  four,  seven,  eleven 
horse,  '  I  like  ver  '  moach  !  '  '  When  I  tried  to  make 
her  realize  the  enormity  of  her  taste,  she  turned 
on  me  like  a  flash  —  "But  you  American  girl,  you 
go  see  you'  brawther  get  keel'  in  football  game!" 

"Pussy  willow,"  I  said,  "it's  not  a  parallel 
case.  Our  brothers  are  free  agents,  —  they  adore 
doing  it.  They're  toiling  and  sweating  and  pray- 

205 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


ing  for  the  chance — perhaps  for  years, — and 
they're  heroes,  and  thousands  are  making  the  wel 
kin  ring  with  their  names!" 

She  shrugged.  "Oh — eef  you  care  more  for 
some  ol'  horse  than  you'  brawther " 

The  C.E.  (although  he  could  dispense  with  her 
society  very  cheerfully)  helps  me  to  understand 
her,  and  through  her,  Mexico,  this  sad,  bad,  piti 
ful,  charming,  lovable,  hateful  land! 

Lupe's  Emilio  is  by  way  of  being  a  poet,  it 
seems,  and  he  has  sent  her  a  little  song,  which 
we  have  translated,  and  I  put  it  into  rhyme,  and 
the  C.E. — who  has  a  very  decorative  voice  indeed 
— hums  it  to  a  lonesome  little  tune  distantly  re 
lated  to  La  Golondrina.  Here  it  is : 

"Thro*  the  uncolored  years  before  I  knew  you 
My  days  were  just  a  string  of  wooden  beads ; 
I  told  them  dully  off,  a  weary  number  .  .  a 

The  silly  cares,  the  foolish  little  needs. 

i 

"But  now  and  evermore,  because  I've  known  you, 
They've  turned  to  precious  pearls  and  limpid 

jade, 

Clear  amethysts  as  deep  as  seas  eternal, 
And  heart 's-blood  rubies  that  will  never  fade. 

"You  never  knew,  and  now  you  never  will  know; 
Some  joys  are  given ;  mine  were  only  lent. 
You  see,  I  do  not  reckon  years  or  distance ; 
Somewhere  I  know  you  are;  I  am  content. 

206 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


"I  do  not  need  your  pity  or  your  presence 
To  bridge  the  widening  gulf  of  now  and  then ; 
It  is  enough  for  me  to  know  my  jewels 
Can  never  turn  to  wooden  beads  again.'* 

Of  course,  to  be  tiresomely  exact,  he's  always 
known  her,  and  she  is  entirely  aware  of  his  de 
votion,  and  he  can  reckon  the  time  and  distance 
quite  easily  with  the  aid  of  a  time-table,  but,  as" 
the  C.E.  says,  "it  listens  well." 

Off  to  La  Ciudad  de  Mexico  in  the  morning ! 
Con  todo  mi  corazon, 

JANE. 

P.S.  I  might  remark  in  passing  that  it's  a  per 
fectly  good  corazon  again,  sane  and  sound  and 
whole,  and  summons  only  dimly  a  memory  of  New 
York.  .  .,  . 

Mexico  City. 

SARAH,  my  dear,  I've  given  up  trying  to  date 
my  letters.  I've  lost  count  of  time.  We've  been 
here  for  many  golden  days  and  silver  nights,  in 
a  land  of  warm  eyes  and  soft  words,  where  peons 
take  off  their  sombreros  and  step  aside  to  let  my 
Grace  pass,  and  Murillo  beggar  boys  are  named — 
"  Florentine  Buenaventura,  awaiting  your  com 
mands!" 

We  sight-see  so  ardently  that  lazy  little  Lupe 
says  she  is  "tired  until  her  bones!"  and  when  she 
surrenders,  we  go  on  alone,  the  C.E.  and  I.  (Oh, 
yes,  the  Budders  are  still  with  us,  but  they  are 

207 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


keener  on  facts  than  fancies,  and  we  deign  but 
seldom  to  go  with  them  and  improve  our  minds.) 
Yesterday,  however,  we  consented  to  see  Diaz' 
model  prison.  My  dear,  after  seeing  how  the  peo 
ple  live  at  large,  one  is  convinced  that  here  the 
wages  of  sin  are  sanitation  and  education.  I 
should  think  ex-convicts  would  be  hugely  in  de 
mand  for  all  sorts  of  positions.  In  the  parlor 
we  were  fascinated  with  a  display  of  the  skulls  of 
prisoners  who  had  been  executed  there.  I  saw 
one  small,  round,  innocent-looking  one  which 
couldn't  possibly  have  ever  contained  a  harsh 
thought,  I  was  sure,  and  I  indignantly  read  the 
tag  to  see  what  he  had  been  martyred  for.  Sarah, 
the  busy  boy  had  done  twenty-one  ladies  to  death  ! 

We  listen  to  melting  music  in  the  Alameda,  we 
ride  in  the  fashion  parade  in  the  Calle  San  Fran 
cisco,  we  drive  out  along  the  beautiful  Paseo  de 
la  Bef  orma  and  drink  chocolate  in  the  shadow  of 
the  Castle  of  Chapultepec  —  chocolate  made  with 
cinnamon  and  so  rich  and  sweet  it  almost  bends 
the  spoon  to  stir  it.  Miss  Vail  remembers  with 
difficulty  that  she  is  the  heir  of  all  the  ages  in  the 
foremost  files  of  time,  a  self-supporting  young 
business  woman  who  beats  bright  thoughts  from 
a  typewriter  four  earnest  hours  per  diem  .  .  .  or 
that  she  was.  .  .  . 

Hoy  —  to-day,  is  very  satisfying;  I  forget  ayer 
—  yesterday;  Manana  —  to-morrow,  may  never 
come! 


208 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Christmas  Eve,  Cuernavaca. 

Felisces  Pascuas,  Sally  dear !  Yon  in  the  snow 
and  I  in  fairyland!  It's  a  comic  opera  Christmas 
here,  bnt  a  very  fetching  one, — the  pretty  proces 
sions  of  singing  children  through  the  streets,  the 
gay,  grotesque  pinatis — huge  paper  dolls  filled 
with  dulces,  the  childish  and  merry  little  people, 
the  color,  the  music,  the  smile  and  the  sob  of  it 
all! 

I  wish  I  could  have  little  Dolores  Tristeza  with 
me.  I  sent  her  a  box  of  delights. 

My  pussy  willow  girl  is  star-eyed  over  a  tele 
gram  and  my  much  more  than  civil  engineer  has 
told  me  what  he  wants  for  Christmas.  If  he  had 
told  me  on  Fifth  Avenue  or  at  home,  on  Wetherby 
Eidge,  I  should  have  said  at  once  that  I  was  sorry, 
and  I  liked  him  immensely,  and  so  on,  but — but 
here,  in  Cuernavaca,  in  the  Borda  Gardens,  beside 
the  crumbling  pinky  palace,  where  the  ghosts  of 
Maximilian  and  Carlotta  walk  at  the  full  of  the 
moon,  when  he  told  me  that  all  his  days  were 
wooden  beads  before  I  came,  and — I  don't  know, 
Sally!  I  don't  know!  New  York  seems  very  far 
away  .  .  .  Eodney  Harrison  and  my  St.  Michael 
seem  palely  unreal.  .  .  .  Can  it  be  possible,  in 
these  gay  little  weeks,  that,  as  Lupe  would  say, 
"I  have  arrive'  "  to  love  this  boy? 
Distractedly, 

JANE. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

Orizaba. 
MY  DEAR  SALLY, 

In  the  market  place  to-day  I  found  such  a  bored 
old  bear  dancing  for  a  bored  crowd.  I've  never 
seen  anything  quite  so  tired  and  patient  as  his 
eyeg.  His  little  old  master  was  half  asleep  but 
he  whacked  his  tambourine  and  whined  his  mourn 
ful  song  without  a  pause.  I  left  Lupe  and  the 
C.E.  and  went  out  and  patted  the  bear  and  asked 
the  man  (I  am  as  handy  as  that  with  my  Spanish !) 
how  much  he  earned  in  a  day.  Less  than  fifteen 
cents  in  our  money !  Well,  I  asked  him  if  I  could 
buy  the  bear  a  week's  vacation  if  I  paid  him  three 
weeks'  earnings  in  advance.  He  accepted  thank 
fully  and  I  believe  he  will  keep  his  word,  being 
just  as  bored  as  the  bear.  The  old  beast  came 
down  on  his  four  feet  with  a  gusty  sigh  and  they 
padded  peacefully  away.  The  crowd  thought  me 
mildly  mad  and  the  C.E.  was  a  little  annoyed  with 
me.  He  said  he  would  gladly  have  attended  to  it 
for  me  if  I  had  asked  him.  I  answered  him  very 
impertinently — something  Lupe  had  taught  me — 
"Cuando  tu  vas,  ya  yo  vengo!"  which  means  in 

210  " 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


crude  English,  "By  the  time  yon  get  started  I'll 
be  on  the  way  back!" 

I  purr  with  pleasure  when  I  think  of  the  bear ! 

JANE. 

P.S.  One  hopes  it  isn't  a  habit  with  him  .  .  . 
being  a  little  annoyed.  .  .  R 

Cordoba. 

Sally,  dear,  this  isn't  a  comic  opera  country  at 
all,  but  a  land  of  grim  melodrama ;  stark  tragedy. 

We're  here  in  the  prettiest  city,  on  the  edge  of 
the  tier r a  caliente,  but  it's  been  a  horrid  day.  It 
started  wrong.  An  unsavory  but  beautiful  cherub 
of  eight  or  so,  smoking  a  cigarette,  tried  to  sell 
me  a  baby  lizard.  You  remember  how  I've  always 
loved  lizards,  but  I  couldn't  take  it  on  a  day's 
sight-seeing  so  I  gave  him  a  copper  and  refused. 
He  said  in  liquid  Spanish,  "So,  Your  Grace  will 
not  buy  my  little  lizard?  Very  well!  Behold!" 
— and  before  my  horrified  eyes  he  held  it  to  his 
cigarette  and  burned  it  to  death  before  I  could 
jump  out  of  the  machine  and  get  to  him.  I  sup 
pose  I'm  tired  out  with  all  this  rushing  about, 
for  I  just  went  to  pieces  over  it,  and  when  Lupe 
said  sympathetically,  "Oh,  deed  you  want  it?"  it 
made  me  turn  on  her.  I  made  the  rest  go  on  the 
drive  without  me  and  I  sat  down  in  the  Plaza 
alone  to  think  things  over.  There  was  a  little  old 
fountain  with  a  gurgling  drip,  and  I  rested  in  the 
ragged  shade  of  the  banana  trees  and  heard  two 
hours  tinkled  from  the  crumbling,  creamy-colored 

211 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


cathedral,  and  came  gradually  to  the  point  of 
understanding  that  the  boy  was  just  as  much  an 
object  of  pity  as  the  lizard.  I  knew  that  Michael 
Daragh  would  say — there — that's  the  first  time, 
even  to  myself 

Well,  I  sat  there,  cooled  and  calmed,  and  pres 
ently  I  heard  something  and  looked  up  to  see  two 
soldiers  on  horseback  bringing  a  prisoner.  His 
arms  were  bound  behind  him,  and  great,  rough 
ropes  ran  from  their  saddles  to  his  neck  and  the 
skin  was  rubbed  raw.  The  horses  were  steam 
ing;  they  must  have  come  fast.  Another  soldier 
went  on  to  report  or  something  and  told  them  to 
wait  there,  and  they  were  halted  right  by  me. 
The  man's  mouth  was  open  and  his  swollen  tongue 
hanging  out  and  he  was  panting  just  like  a  dog. 
He  gasped,  "  Agua!  For  Dios — agua!"  but  his 
guards  just  laughed  and  shouted  to  the  pulqueria 
across  the  street,  and  a  boy  came  out  and  brought 
them  drinks.  Their  backs  were  toward  me,  and 
I  got  up  without  making  a  sound  and  crept  to  the 
fountain  and  filled  the  big  iron  cup  to  the  brim 
and  held  it  till  he'd  drained  every  drop,  and  then 
let  him  have  a  little  more,  and  then  I  dipped  my 
handkerchief  in  the  water  and  put  it  in  his  mouth. 
And  just  at  that  very  moment — of  course! — the 
guards  turned  round  and  saw  me,  and  the  Bud- 
ders  and  the  C.E.  and  Lupe  drove  up ! 

My  dear  Sarah,  they  very  nearly  arrested  me! 
The  man  is,  they  claim,  a  dangerous  revolutionist, 
and  I  was  giving  aid  to  him.  Lupe  was  shaking 

212 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


like  a  leaf  and  the  C.E.  was  white  as  paper,  but 
between  them  they  got  me  off. 

I  don't  care!    I'd  do  it  again! 

It  seems  the  whole  country  is  simmering  and 
seething  in  revolution;  old  Diaz'  throne  is  totter 
ing  under  him.  Lupe  was  tearful  over  a  wailing 
letter  from  her  Emilio,  begging  her  to  return,  and 
the  C.E.  is  recalled  to  his  mine,  and  the  Budders 
are  a  little  nervous  and  anxious  to  hurry  north 
ward,  so  we're  off  for  Guanajuato  to-morrow,  but 
I'm  not  very  keen  about  it. 

I'm  not  very  keen  about  anything. 
Drearily, 

J. 

Two  Hours  Later. 

P.S.  We  took  a  little  paseo  in  the  moonlight 
and  things  looked  brighter  in  the  dark!  The  only 
reason  the  C.E.  gets  a  little  annoyed  is  that  he 
cannot  bear  to  see  me  in  distress  or  danger.  He 
was  very  nice  about  promising  to  help  me  smooth 
the  path  for  Romeo  and  Juliet. 

We  pass  through  Guadalajara  and  I'll  run  in 
to  see  Dolores  Tristeza. 


On  the  Train  to  Guanajuato. 

Sally,  she  came  running  to  meet  me  and  flung 

herself  into  my  arms  !    The  sister  says  she  's  never 

done  that  to  any  one  before,  and  she  told  me  the 

child  had  talked  of  me  constantly.    They're  going 

213 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


to  let  me  take  her  out  for  a  whole  day  when  we 
come  back.  She  called  "Hasta  la  vista!" — and 
threw  me  a  kiss.  She  has  quite  wiped  out  the 
lizard  and  the  insur  recto. 

Later, 

This  is  the  most  fascinating  place  yet!  I'm 
glad  the  C.E.  lives  here,  rather  than  in  the  cloy 
ing  prettiness  of  the  tierra  caliente.  It's  great 
fun,  arriving  at  a  new  place  after  dark.  The  town 
is  high  in  the  hills  above  the  station  and  we  came 
up  in  a  mule  car,  rattling  through  the  twisting, 
narrow  streets.  I  sat  near  the  driver,  only  his 
soft,  bright  eyes  showing  between  his  high- 
wrapped  serape  and  his  low-drawn  sombrero,  and 
he  told  me  that  his  mules  were  named  Constantino 
and  The  Pine  Tree,  faithful  animals  both  of  whom 
he  tenderly  loved.  The  few  pedestrians  scuttled 
into  doorways  or  flattened  themselves  against  the 
walls  as  we  caromed  past,  and  from  time  to  time 
he  blew  a  deafening  blast  on  a  crumpled  horn. 

We  stepped  from  the  car. straight  into  the  of 
fice  of  the  hotel,  and  then  the  C.E.  and  I  set  out 
with  Lupe  to  escort  her  to  her  uncle's  house,  but 
at  the  first  dark  turning  she  gave  a  smothered  little 
scream  and  melted  into  the  arms  of  a  dusky  cava 
lier.  Emilio,  when  he  could  spare  the  time  to  be 
introduced,  proved  something  of  a  landscape, — 
large  for  a  Mexican,  very  much  the  patrician  with 
his  slim  hands  and  feet  and  correct  Castilian 
manner.  Guanajuato  is  rather  old-fashioned  and 

214 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


he  wears  the  high  class,  native  costume,  and  when 
Lupe  is  at  home  here,  she  always  wears  a  reboso 
instead  of  a  hat. 

He  is  the  son  of  so  many  revolutions,  it  must 
make  him  dizzy  to  remember  them,  but  I  like  him 
and  I  mean  to  help  him  win  his  pearl  maiden.  He 
discreetly  left  us  before  we  reached  Lupe 's  house 
and  delivered  her  over  to  a  very  impressive  Blue- 
beardish  sort  of  person  who  was  very  gracious  to 
us  and  asked  me  to  visit  Lupe.  I  shall, — it  fits  in 
perfectly  with  my  plans!  I  go  there  to-morrow. 

Meanwhile,  I  go  to  sleep ! 
Drowsily, 

JANE. 

At  Senor  Don  Diego's  Palacio. 

Sally,  mia,  how  you'd  adore  this  house!  The 
floors  are  of  dull-red  tiles  and  they  are  massaged 
three  times  a  day,  and  the  whole  thing  is  medieval 
in  flavor, — a  flock  of  velvet-voiced,  dove-eyed  ser 
vants  who  adore  Lupe  and  are  pledged  to  her 
cause.  Old  Cristina,  who  was  her  mother's  nurse, 
is  to  be  our  stoutest  ally. 

Every  night  for  an  hour  Emilio  stands  under 
her  balcony  "playing  the  bear."  Lupe,  her  face 
shrouded  in  her  reboso,  leans  over  and  whispers. 
I  hover  in  the  background  like  Juliet's  nurse. 
Afterward  the  C.E.,  having  ridden  in  from  his 
mine,  comes  for  me,  and  we  sally  forth  in  the  night 
like  the  Caliph  and  walk  slowly  up  and  down  the 
Street  of  Sad  Children,  where  the  music  comes 

215 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


daintily  to  us,  filtered  through  the  trees.  Some 
times  "  Emily, "  as  the  C.E.  wickedly  calls  him, 
joins  us,  to  talk  of  his  two  loves, — Lupe,  and  Mex 
ico.  Sally,  never  laugh  again  at  the  Mexican  revo 
lutions, — they're  not  funny,  only  pitiful. 

My  chief  task  now  is  to  infuse  a  quality  of  hope 
and — ginger — into  these  little  lovers.  Sometimes 
their  attitude  of  Dios  no  lo  quiso — heaven  wills 
otherwise — makes  me  want  to  shake  them,  but 
slowly  and  surely  I'm  rousing  them  to  action. 

To-day  we  visited  the  prison  here  .  .  .  not  the 
show  model  of  Mexico  City.  This  one  is  a  hold 
over  from  the  Dark  Ages.  Young  and  old,  gentle 
and  simple,  murderers  and  thieving  children — all 
herded  in  together.  In  the  huge  court,  before  pil 
lars  with  chains,  a  peon  was  mopping  up  some 
dark  stains.  .  .  .  Ugh !  This  is  the  broken  heart 
of  Mexico  where  tears  and  blood  are  brewing. 

JANE. 

One  Momentous  Morning! 

All  our  little  plans  are  perfected,  Sally!  We 
have  to  act  quickly  for  Lupe's  Tio  Diego  is  more 
irate  than  usual,  and  " Emily's"  papa  languishes 
in  prison,  and  there  is  a  plot  on  foot  to  rescue  him 
and  make  him  Governor  or  something. 

The  Budders  find  the  situation  singularly  lack 
ing  in  thrill,  and  feel  they  would  enjoy  the  safe 
and  uneventful  streets  of  San  Francisco,  and  we 
start  north  day  after  to-morrow  night.  They  are 
interested  in  my  pretty  novios  and  will  timidly 
help  uss 

216 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


It  is  all  very  simple.  In  the  afternoon  Lupe  and 
I  will  stroll  to  the  little  church  where  she  was 
baptized  and  where  the  gentle  old  priest  is  a  friend 
of  "  Emily  V  family.  Emilio  and  the  C.E.  will 
be  waiting.  Two  of  us  are  expeditiously  wed. 
Lupe  and  I  stroll  back  alone,  halting  to  take  a 
cup  of  chocolate  with  cinnamon  in  the  dulceria; 
dine  sedately  with  Tio  Diego.  Then  I,  reminding 
him  that  I  am  about  to  return  to  the  States  with 
my  relatives,  take  farewell  of  him,  thanking  him 
(feeling  a  good  deal  of  the  viper  that  bites  the 
hand  that  feeds  it)  for  his  hospitality.  Lupe  and 
I  then  repair  to  her  rooms  for  a  last  chat.  Pres 
ently  Emilio  and  the  C.E.  arrive  beneath  the  bal 
cony.  I  emerge,  join  the  C.E.,  and  go  briskly  with 
him  through  the  dusk  to  the  street  car  and  thence 
to  the  station  where  the  Budders  are  waiting  and 
leave  for  Silao  on  the  nine-o'clock  train. 

Only,  as  the  intelligent  reader  will  have  gath 
ered,  it  will  be  Lupe  who  melts  into  the  distance  in 
my  frock  and  cloak,  with  my  thickest  chiffon  veil 
over  her  face,  and  Emilio  who  strides  at  her  side 
in  the  C.E.'s  suit  and  overcoat  and  hat  and  the 
big,  dark  goggles  he's  been  diligently  wearing 
lately,  and  a  scarf  about  his  neck  against  the 
menace  of  the  night  air,  while  the  C.E.  in  actual 
ity,  in  caballero  costume,  gazes  adoringly  up  at 
me  on  Lupe's  Juliet  balcony !  Eather  neat,  what? 

We  hold  the  pose,  the  C.E.  and  I,  until  we  hear 
the  heartening  whistle  of  the  train,  when  he  slips 
away  to  change  his  clothes  and  I,  escorted  by  old 

217 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Cristina,  go  back  to  the  hotel  and  follow  the  Bud- 
ders  to  Guadalajara  in  the  morning.  I  don't  see 
how  it  can  possibly  fail. 

Emilio's  family  owns  large  ranchos  up  in  Du- 
rango,  where  the  elopers  will  be  quite  safe  in  a 
mountain  fastness,  and  they  will  arrive  there  by 
craft,  not  buying  through  tickets,  doubling  now 
and  then. 

This  is  much  more  fun  than  eloping  myself! 
Excitedly, 

JANE. 

P.S.  Speaking  of  which,  the  C.E.  thinks  it  high 
time  his  case  came  up  for  hearing,  and  I  Ve  prom 
ised  to  give  it  serious  consideration  as  soon  as  E. 
and  L.  are  on  their  train.  He  had  a  quaint  idea 
that  the  old  priest  might  as  well  make  it  a  double 
wedding ! 

The  Next  Night. 

Only  think,  Sally  dear,  this  time  to-morrow 
night  it  will  all  be  accomplished!  I  Ve  never  been 
so  thrilled  in  all  my  days. 

And  there's  another  reason  for  it  beside  my 
pussy  willow  maid's  romance!  (No,  not  that! 
Not  yet,  at  any  rate!)  It  was  this  evening,  early, 
when  she  and  I  were  walking,  and  they  were  play 
ing  La  Golondrina.  Lupe  was  silent,  deep  in  her 
own  rosy  thoughts.  We  passed  the  entrance  to  the 
" Street  of  Sad  Children"  and  the  name  and  the 
mournful  magic  of  the  music  conjured  up  Dolores 
Tristeza  for  me,  and  the  thought  that  I  should 
soon  see  her  again,  but  only  to  say  good-by. 

218 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Then,  quite  suddenly  and  serenely,  with  no  both 
ering  doubts  or  "if 's,"  I  knew.  I  knew  the  thing 
I  am  going  to  do.  I'm  going  to  take  her,  to  have 
her  and  keep  her  always.  I'm  twenty-eight  years 
old,  sound  body  and  sane  mind,  with  a  steadily 
fattening  income ;  I  defy  them  to  say  I  'm  not  the 
fittest  adopter  they  ever  saw.  I  know  she'll  want 
to  come  with  me,  and  I  know  I  couldn't  leave  Mex 
ico  heart-whole  without  her.  Just  as  I  arrived  at 
this  satisfying  conclusion  I  glanced  up;  we  were 
passing  a  little  pulqueria  whose  name — painted 
gorgeously — was  "The  Orphan's  Tear!"  Wasn't 
that  fitting? 

I  can't  wait  to  see  her  and  tell  her! 

JANE. 

TJie  Afternoon. 
SALLY  DEAEEST, 

We  are  just  home  from  the  wedding  and  I  wish 
you  could  see  Lupe's  dewy-eyed  joy.  I  ache  with 
tenderness  for  her.  I  know  now  why  mothers  al 
ways  weep  at  weddings — I  very  nearly  did  myself, 
and  I  know  I  shall  in  ten  years  or  so,  when  I 
see  my  Dolores  Tristeza,  standing  like  that,  star- 
eyed,  quivering-lipped. 

When  she  slips  away  in  the  dusk  to-night  I  shall 
put  a  period  to  my  thought  of  Maria  de  Guadalupe 
Eosalia  Merced  Castello.  I  want  to  keep  this 
fragrant  memory  of  her. 

"Yet,  ah,  that  spring  should  vanish  with  the  rose! 
That  youth's  sweet-scented  manuscript  should 
close!" 

219 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


I  refuse  to  fancy  my  pussy-willow  girl,  my  pearl 
maiden,  in  ten  years,  with  a  mustache  and  no  cor 
sets  and  eight  weak-coffee-colored  babies !  Adios, 
Lupe  mia!  Go  with  God! 

Everything  is  in  readiness.  The  dear  old  Bud- 
ders,  trembling  with  excitement,  will  be  waiting 
at  the  train.  As  for  me — as  for  my  own  little  af 
fair — I'm  pushing  that  away,  until  my  novios  are 
safe.  I'm  pushing  away  that  moment  on  the  bal 
cony,  when  we  hear  the  train  whistle.  Sally,  I 
don't  know!  This  lovely,  lazy,  ardent  land  works 
moon  magic  on  staid  professional  women ! 
Mistily, 

JANE. 

Guadalajara, 
Two  Days  Later. 
SALLY  DEAREST, 

It  was  mean  to  make  you  wait  for  the  next 
thrilling  installment  of  my  Mexican  best-seller, 
but  this  is  the  first  moment  when  I've  thought  I 
could  put  down,  coherently  and  cohesively,  what 
happened.  Happened  is  a  palely  inadequate 
word ; — burst, — exploded — erupted,  would  be  bet 
ter! 

It  worked  like  a  charm.  They  got  away.  I 
leaned  from  Lupe's  balcony  in  the  fragrant  dusk 
and  listened  to  their  footfalls  dying  away.  The 
C.E.,  shrouded  to  his  eyes,  looked  up  and  whis 
pered  that  " Emily's"  charro  trousers  had  nearly 
ruined  everything  at  the  last  moment;  he  had 

220 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


needed  vaseline  and  a  shoehorn  and  a  special 
supplication  to  St.  James  to  get  them  on.  We 
giggled  like  sixteen-year-olds.  The  C.E.  said 

"Lettice,  Lettice,  let  down  your  golden  hair, 
That  I  may  climb  by  a  golden  stair !" 

I  was  so  pleased  with  him  for  remembering  his 
fairy-tales.  I  was  so  pleased  with  him  and  so 
fond  of  him  and  so  happy  over  my  novios  that  I 
couldn't  keep  my  beautiful  plan  a  secret  any 
longer.  I  told  him  what  I  had  decided  about  Do 
lores  Tristeza. 

My  dear!  I  wish  you  could  have  heard  him  I 
He  was  another  person  entirely.  He  said  it  was 
the  maddest,  wildest,  most  sickly  sentimental,  im 
practical  thing  he'd  ever  heard!  He  raved  on 
and  on,  always  coming  back  to  the  point  of  her 
clouded  parentage.  I  told  him  he  was  perfectly 
mid- Victorian, — that  any  one  living  in  the  present 
century  knows  that  there  are  no  illegitimate 
children — just  illegitimate  fathers  and  mothers! 
But  it  never  budged  him.  He  was,  for  the  first 
time,  a  most  uncivil  engineer.  "  Besides, "  I  said, 
" beauty  and  wit  is  the  love  child's  portion!" 

It  must  have  been  funny,  really,  raging  at  each 
other  in  whispers.  He  began  to  burble  about 
heredity  and  I  told  him  I  was  planning  an  en 
vironment  that  would  bleach  out  the  heredity  of 
the  Piper  Family,  and  he  said  that  it  couldn't  be 
done,  and  I  said  that  he  was  a  pagan-suckled-in-a- 

221 


JANE   JOUBNEYS   ON 


creed-outworn,  and  just  then  the  train  whistled — 
the  signal  for  what  was  to  have  been  our  melting 
moment,  and  we  were  both  so  mad  we  were  fairly 
j'ibbering !  And  at  that  very  instant  old  Cristina 
came  running  to  tell  us  to  fly  at  once,  as  Don  Diego 
had  decided  to  have  Emilio  arrested ! 

Before  we  could  spread  a  wing,  a  little  guard 
of  opera  bouffe  soldiers  was  rounding  the  corner. 
I  just  whispered — " Stick!  They'd  stop  them  at 
Silao!"  when  they  were  upon  him.  He  was  a 
brick,  I  must  admit.  He  just  hitched  the  serape 
higher  and  pulled  the  sombrero  lower  and  trudged 
away  in  somber  silence.  It  seemed  the  only  decent 
and  sporting  thing  for  me  to  stick,  too,  so  I  flung 
on  Lupe's  cape  and  covered  my  face  with  a  man 
tilla  and  fled  after  them.  The  C.E.  was  furious 
and  tried  his  frantic  best  to  make  me  go  back,  but 
I  wouldn't  and  I  whispered  to  him  that  I'd  never 
forgive  him  as  long  as  I  lived  if  he  told  and  spoiled 
everything.  My  dear,  they  took  us  to  that  horrible 
prison  .  .  .  with  the  bloodstains  on  the  floor !  The 
man  at  the  desk  was  nearly  asleep.  He  scribbled 
something  in  his  Dream  Book  and  produced  a  key 
three  feet  long  at  least,  unlocked  a  door,  pushed 
us  in,  and  clanged  it  shut  behind  us.  We  were  in 
the  main  court  with  the  murderers  and  the  news 
boys  and  the  sodden  drunkards.  ...  A  guard 
with  a  gun  showed  us  two  cells  opening  off  the 
court.  We  crouched  on  stools  in  the  back  of  one 
of  them  and  the  C.E.  said  between  his  teeth,  "Keep 
that  thing  over  your  face  and  keep  still  t* 

222 


1*9 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Then  I  stopped  admiring  myself  and  realized 
what  I  had  done  and  where  I  was  ...  a  Gringo 
woman  in  a  Guanajuato  prison  at  night.  .  .  .  But 
every  hour  that  I  stayed  there  saw  my  novios 
nearer  to  safety,  and  the  Budders  wouldn't  know 
and  wouldn't  worry.  Sally,  I'm  glad  I  had  a  firm 
Vermont  Scriptural  upbringing!  I  can  always 
find  something,  ready  to  my  hand, — a  staff  to  lean 
on.  I  thought  of  a  funny  one  I've  always  loved — 
one  of  the  Proverbs,  I  think 

"The  name  of  the  Lord  is  a  strong  tower;  the 
righteous  runneth  into  it  and  is  safe." 

I  wasn't  very  sure  I  was  "a  righteous"  but  I 
tried  valiantly  to  remember  all  the  worthy  actions 
I  had  done,  and  I  don't  mind  telling  you  they 
rather  piled  up, — from  Lupe  to  the  bored  old  bear. 
I  runneth-ed  into  my  tower  and  felt  a  good  deal 
safer,  I  make  no  doubt,  than  my  poor  C.E. 

There  was  a  nameless  age  of  black  silence,  and 
then  there  was  a  crowded  hour  of  glorious  life. 
When  I  heard  the  shouts  and  then  the  shots  I  tried 
to  remember  Sydney  Carton  and  the  French  aris 
tocrats  taking  snuff  on  the  steps  of  the  guillotine, 
and  I  tried  to  think  of  something  handsome  and 
dressy  in  the  way  of  a  farewell  speech,  in  case  it 
might  ever  be  reported  in  the  States.  The  C.E. 
was  splendid,  only,  when  the  great  doors  clanged 
open  and  the  mob  streamed  in  calling  wildly  for 
Emilio  Hernandez,  he  very  naturally  failed  to  hold 

223 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


up  his  hand  and  say ' '  Present. ' '  We  both  thought 
that  his  hour  had  struck  and  you  may  imagine  my 
horror  and  remorse.  Well,  they  began  a  cell-to- 
cell  canvass,  but  when  they  flashed  the  lantern  on 
us  they  shouted  with  joyful  triumph.  They  were 
not  executioners  but  rescuers!  They  were  revo 
lutionists,  come  to  save  Emilio  and  his  papa,  the 
General.  That  gentleman  arrived  on  the  run, 
panting,  demanding  his  son.  Alarums  and  excur 
sions!  Explanations.  I  think  the  bitterest  mo 
ment  of  the  whole  hideous  time  for  the  poor  C.E. 
was  when  "Emily's"  papa  kissed  him! 

Sally,  I'm  running  down  like  a  mechanical  toy, 
— I  can  hardly  write  another  word.  I  was  escorted 
to  my  hotel  and  thence  to  a  dawn  train  for  Guad 
alajara,  The  meek  C.E.  renewed  his  suit ;  he  said 
I  could  adopt  the  whole  hospicio  if  I  wanted  to, 
but  I  said  " Adios"  and  I  think  in  his  head,  if  not 
his  heart,  he  was  rather  relieved.  Poor,  dear,  ex 
tremely  civil  engineer!  His  tastes  are  simple 
and  his  wants  are  few, — just  a  limp,  lovely  lady 
in  the  background  of  his  life,  waiting  prettily  for 
him  to  come  home  and  tell  her  what  to  think.  That 
man  doesn't  want  a  help-meet;  he  wants  a  harim. 

They  are  unwinding  several  thousand  miles  of 
red  tape,  but  at  the  end,  like  the  pot  of  gold  and 
the  rainbow,  I  shall  find  my  Dolores  Tristeza,  and 
there  will  be  one  pair  of  mournful  eyes  the  less  in 
this  land  of  smiles  and  sobs. 

Adios,  poor,  pretty,  passionate,  shrugging  Mex 
ico!  Go  with  God! 

224 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


I'm  coining  home,  Sally  mia! 

J. 

P.S.  The  C.E.'s  days  before  he  knew  me  were 
just  a  string  of  wooden  beads;  afterward,  they 
were  a  string  of  fire-crackers ! 

P.S.  II.  Michael  Daragh  is  going  to  be  fright 
fully  pleased  with  me  for  wiping  the  orphan's 
tear;  but  he'll  make  me  see  that  there's  just  as 
much  poetry  and  more  punch  in  wiping  the  or 
phan's  nose! 


CHAPTER  XVII 

ONCE,  long  ago,  coming  home  from  her 
self-imposed  exile  to  the  lean,  clean 
Island  in  Maine,  Jane  had  dreaded,  a  lit 
tle,  her  re-meeting  with  Michael  Daragh,  but  on 
the  trip  home  from  Mexico  and  California  she  had 
no  such  feeling.  Doubts  were  over  and  done  with 
forever.  The  flight  had  been  for  the  purpose  of 
getting  perspective;  perspective  made  her  grave 
Irishman,  her  stern  St.  Michael,  loom  up  and  up 
until  he  filled  her  horizon.  Her  heart  had  been 
allowed  to  drift  with  the  tide  in  the  lyrical  inter 
lude  in  the  lovely,  lazy  land  she  had  come  from, 
but — save  perhaps  for  certain  misty  moments — it 
had  insisted  on  swimming  stoutly  upstream.  "I 
am  going  back  to  Michael  Daragh, ' '  she  told  her 
self  gladly  and  unashamed,  and  the  rhythm  of  the 
train,  hurrying  across  the  continent,  repeated  it 
in  a  joyful,  endless  litany — "  Going — back — to — 
Michael — Daragh ! ' ' 

Jane  leaned  back  in  her  quiet  compartment  (tan 
gible  evidence  of  solid  success)  and  watched  the 

226 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


desert  miles  and  the  prairie  miles  sliding  away 
beside  her,  and  warmed  her  heart  and  soul  with 
the  thought  of  Michael's  face  when  he  should  first 
see  her  again.  Now,  when  the  swift  gladness  leapt 
up  in  his  eyes  and  the  color  ran  up  in  his  thin 
cheeks  and  his  whole  face  glowed  from  within  with 
its  stained-glass-window  look,  she  would  not  turn 
away  from  him,  but  to  him, — gladly,  royally,  lav 
ishly,  with  all  that  she  had  and  all  that  she  was. 

She  wired  Mrs.  Hills  from  Chicago  the  day  but 
not  the  hour  of  her  return,  but  sent  no  word  to 
Michael  Daragh.  That  would  savor  of  a  com 
mand,  a  summons,  and  she  was  too  happily  humble 
for  that.  He  would  know  from  the  boarding-house 
keeper  that  she  was  near,  and  he  would  be  waiting 
for  her. 

Like  a  timid  tourist,  she  was  hatted  and  veiled 
and  gloved  long  before  they  entered  the  grimy 
outskirts  of  the  city,  and  sat,  hot-cheeked,  breath 
ing  fast,  on  the  edge  of  her  seat,  far  more  thrilled 
and  shaken  than  she  had  been,  four  years  and  more 
ago,  when  she  made  her  exodus  from  the  village 
to  the  wide  world.  The  narrow  strip  of  mirror 
between  the  windows  framed  her  radiant  face; 
now  indeed  was  she  anointed  with  the  oil  of  joy 
above  her  fellows. 

Between  a  slight  delay  of  the  train,  and  the 

227 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


snail's  pace  of  the  taxicab  through  the  traffic,  it 
would  be  quite  six  o  'clock  before  she  reached  Mrs. 
Hetty  Hills'  house  in  Washington  Square;  he 
would  be  absolutely  certain  to  be  home. 

Everything  took  on  an  especial  beauty  and  sig 
nificance, — the  crowded  streets,  the  shop  windows, 
the  lights,  the  people, — her  heart  went  out  to  all 
of  them — rich  man,  poor  man,  beggar  man,  thief; 
they  were  Michael's  and  they  would  be  hers.  He 
should  have  that  oil  of  joy  for  his  work,  for  his 
high,  selfless  purposes. 

It  was  hard  to  wait  even  an  instant  to  see  him, 
to  have  him  ask,  and  to  answer,  but  it  was  wonder 
ful  to  wait,  in  faith  and  utter  confidence.  The 
sense  of  haste  and  impatience  fell  away;  it  must 
happen  as  it  would,  serenely,  naturally. 

She  did  not  mind  that  it  took  her  many  seconds 
to  find  the  exact  amount  and  then  a  lavish  tip  for 
her  driver,  and  she  noted  with  satisfaction  that 
the  faithful  Mabel  had  seen  her  from  an  upper 
window  and  would  spread  the  glad  tidings. 

Mrs.  Hetty  Hills,  a  little  stouter  and  grayer  and 
more  prosperous  than  she  had  been  four  years 
earlier,  stood  in  the  doorway.  "Well,  now,  I  am 
glad!"  she  declared.  "I'm  free  to  say  I  thought 
it  was  a  risk,  your  traipsing  round  Mexico  with 
all  those  revolutions  and  epidemics  and  things! 

228 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


My,  but  yon  look  fine,  child!  I  believe  my  soul 
it's  done  you  a  world  of  good!  'Praise  to  the 
face  is  open  disgrace,'  but  you  don't  look  a  day 
over  eighteen  and  I'd  swear  it  on  a  stack  of 
Bibles!" 

"Nice  Mrs.  Hills,"  said  her  star  boarder,  hug 
ging  her  heartily.  "How  are  you?  And  how  is 
everybody?" 

"Well,  I'm  pretty  good  now,"  said  the  ex- vil 
lager,  earnestly,  "but  you  can  tell  your  folks  I 
was  miserable  enough  a  week  ago  yesterday.  I 
guess  if  I  was  the  give-up  kind  I'd  have  been  flat 
on  my  back.  I  don 't  know  when  I've  ever  had  such 
a  spell.  My  throat  ached  and  I  could  hardly  drag 
one  foot  after  another,  and  even  my  eyeballs " 

6 '  But  you  're  fine  now,  aren  't  you  ?  I  'm  so  glad ! 
I'm  sure  you'd  been  overdoing.  And  how  is — how 
are  all  the  others?" 

"Oh  ...  about  the  same.  Mrs.  Eamsey  doesn't 
get  out  to  her  concerts  any  more,  on  account  of  her 
leg,  and  that  makes  her  bluer 'n  a  whetstone,  but 
otherwise  I  guess  we're  all  pretty  much  of  a  much 
ness.  Everybody  misses — land  t'  goodness,"  she 
caught  herself  up,  "I  guess  there  is  one  piece  of 
news !  I  guess  there  is  one  change,  sure  enough ! ' ' 

"What?"  asked  Jane,  sitting  down  suddenly  on 
one  of  the  stiff  hall  chairs. 

229 


JANE   JOUBNEYS   ON 


"Why,  Mr.  Daragh!  He's  gone  home  to  Ire 
land!" 

("  You've  got  to  say  something!  You've  got  to 
make  a  remark!")  Jane  told  herself,  fiercely,  but 
it  seemed  a  fearful  pause  before  she  heard  her 
voice  and  it  sounded  thin  and  queer.  "Oh,  is  that 
so?  Has  he?" 

"Yes,  went  off  like  a  shot!  Got  a  cable  from 
some  of  his  folks.  All  he  said  was  he  was  called 
home.  Awful  close-mouthed  for  an  Irishman.  All 
the  Irish  I  ever  knew  before — I  think  he  gave 
Mabel  a  note  to  put  in  your  room.  Want  I  should 
send  her  up  for  it?"  asked  the  landlady  eagerly. 

"No,  thanks,"  said  Jane,  very  creditably. 
* '  There  isn  't  any  hurry.  And  how  is  Emma  Ellis, 
Mrs.  Hills  ? ' '  She  sat  chatting  for  ten  minutes  by 
her  wrist  watch  and  then  took  her  leisurely  way 
upstairs  and  then  she  chatted  another  five  with 
Mabel  before  she  attacked  the  mile  of  mail  upon 
the  desk  in  her  sitting  room. 

It  was  a  brief  little  note ;  illness  and  imminent 
death  in  his  family — he  had  time  for  this  line  only 
— and  he  wanted  God  to  save  her  kindly  and  he  was 
her  friend,  Michael  Daragh.  It  was  the  sort  of 
little  note,  she  told  herself,  that  a  thoughtful  man 
would  write  with  the  good  Mabel  in  the  back  of  his 
mind.  She  felt  a  sense  of  daze  and  dizziness  and 

230 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


she  sat  with  her  hat  and  cloak  on  until  the  dinner 
gong  rent  the  air,  waiting  much  as  Michael  Daragh 
had  waited,  long  ago,  when  he  had  listened  for  the 
sound  of  the  motor,  bearing  her  uptown  with  Rod 
ney  Harrison,  and  then  had  torn  up  the  narrow 
strip  of  paper  which  bore  her  foolish  little  post 
script.  She  took  herself  resolutely  in  hand  and 
went  briskly  down  to  dinner,  and  regaled  Mrs. 
Hills  and  the  music  students  and  the  teachers  and 
bank  clerks  and  elderly,  concert-going  ladies  (one 
of  whom  went  no  more)  with  the  gay  but  expur 
gated  text  of  her  conquest  of  Mexico.  There  was 
talk  of  Michael  Daragh,  and  one  of  the  younger 
music  students  ventured,  pinkly,  the  theory  that 
Mr.  Daragh  had  been  called  home  to  inherit  a 
title. 

"Yes,"  said  Jane  with  quick  sympathy,  "I 
shouldn't  wonder  in  the  least!  He's  always 
seemed  a  belted  earl  sort  of  person,  for  all  his 
other-worldly  ways,  hasn't  he?"  It  was  a  relief 
to  talk  of  him  lightly  and  easily  like  this.  "Or  a 
Squire,  at  any  rate!  Something  picturesque, — 
something  story  bookish!" 

"Oh,"  giggled  the  music  student,  delighted  at 
her  backing,  "won't  it  be  thrilling  to  get  a  letter 
with  a  crest  and  be  told  that  he'll  never  be  back 
again?" 

231 


JANE   JOUKNEYS    ON 


"Lord  Lovel,  he  stood  at  his  castle  gate, 
A-combing  his  milk-white  steed, " 

cKanted  Jane,  merrily.  "I  can  quite  picture  him, 
can't  you?  Only  the  milk-white  steed  will  be  im 
mediately  hitched  to  a  delivery  wagon  of  his 
worldly  goods,  for  distribution  to  the  poor.  Yes, 
that  is  without  doubt  what  has  happened!  I  can 
see  adoring  yokels  pulling  their  forelocks  to  him ! 
He  '11  fit  beautifully  into  that  background ! ' '  Thus 
her  tongue,  running  ripplingly  on,  while  her  heart, 
suddenly  released  from  its  numb  depression,  wired 
her  blithe  reassurance.  "He's  coming  back, — 
coming  back  to  me — coming  back  soon!" 

The  high  mood  stayed  with  her,  even  though  the 
days  and  weeks  slipped  by  without  word  from 
him.  She  was  entirely  happy  and  confident,  but 
she  found  herself  too  restless  to  settle  down  to 
her  work.  She  had  a  sense  of  excited  waiting  for 
something  beautiful  to  happen,  and  a  warm  and 
kindly  yearning  to  make  every  one  else  as  happy 
as  herself.  She  went  often  to  Hope  House  and 
sparred  with  Emma  Ellis;  neither  of  them  had 
heard  from  the  Irishman,  and  while  Jane  was  se 
cretly  able  to  interpret  this  with  comfort  to  her 
self,  the  other  was  not.  Miss  Ellis  leaned  roman 
tically  toward  the  theory  of  the  younger  music 

232 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


student;  Mr.  Daragh  had  probably  gone  home  to 
inherit  property  and  assume  responsibilities ;  she 
had  always  known  there  was  nothing  ordinary 
about  Mr.  Daragh ;  she  had  always  felt  that  he  was 
a  great  person,  stooping  to  this  life  of  abnegation. 

"But  I  think, "  said  Jane  flippantly,  "he's  much 
more  likely  to  have  been  a  Sin-eater ! ' ' 

"A— what?" 

"A  Sin-eater.  I'm  sure  they're  still  being  worn 
in  Ireland.  A  Sin-eater  is  a  man  who  has  had  a 
great  sorrow  or  committed  a  great  crime " 

"Miss  VM1" 

" — and  lives  in  a  damp  and  dismal  cave  across 
a  slimy  moor  and  whenever  any  one  dies  un- 
shriven,  he  is  sent  for,  and  he  comes  after  dark,  his 
face  shrouded,  and  prays  and  moans  all  night  be 
side  the  corpse,  eating  all  he  possibly  can  of  the 
food  which  has  been  placed  about  it,  and  what  he 
can't  consume  on  the  spot  he  takes  away  before 
dawn,  in  a  sack,  and  that  is  his  larder,  you  see, 
until  the  next  sudden  death !  And,  of  course,  the 
idea  is  that  he  has  taken  the  sins  of  the  departed 
upon  his  own  soul,  and  that  when  he  has  done  it 
long  enough  and  meekly  enough  he  will  be  per 
mitted  to  die,  himself,  and  other  people's  sins  will 
have  miraculously  cleansed  him  of  his  own!" 

"I  never  heard  anything  so — so  revolting,"  said 

233 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


the  Superintendent  in  her  most  smothered  voice. 

"Oh,  do  you  find  it  so?  To  me  it  seems  very 
quaint  and  charming."  She  was  ashamed  of  her 
small-boy  impishness  but  for  sheer  high  spirits 
she  could  not  seem  to  stop.  "But  perhaps,"  she 
allowed  it  grudgingly,  "he  didn't  commit  a  crime; 
perhaps  he  was  merely  crossed  in  love,  or — like 
liest  of  all — assumed  the  burden  of  another's  mis 
deed  !  A  wild  young  brother,  or  The  Heir !  That's 
it, — The  Heir !  And  Michael,  with  proper  younger- 
son  humility,  realized  that  he  didn't  count,  and 
took  the  blame  and  fled  to  the  States,  and  now  The 
Heir  has  died,  first  doing  the  decent  thing  in  the 
way  of  death-bed  remorse  and  confession.  And, 
of  course,  there's  a  girl  in  it  somewhere,  and  I'm 
sure  she  has  waited  for  Michael  all  these  years  in 
stead  of  marrying  The  Heir,  aren't  you?" 

But  for  the  most  part  her  mood  was  one  of 
amazing  gentleness  and  serenity,  with  that  insist 
ent  desire  for  being  good  enough  and  worthy 
enough  for  the  glory  about  to  descend  upon  her. 
She  made  little  pilgrimages  to  all  the  people  they 
had  helped  together, — to  Ethel  and  Jerry  and  Bil- 
liken  in  Eochester,  snugly  prosperous  and  happy, 
with  a  little  Jerry,  now,  whose  ears  flanged  ex 
actly  as  his  father's  did;  to  Chicago,  to  confer 
with  little  Miss  Marjorie  and  the  Eoderick  Frosts 

234 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


about  the  making  of  the  old  house  where  Roderick 
IV  was  born  into  a  Maternity  Home,  and  to  glad 
den  the  good  little  Stranger's  Friend  with  a  fat 
check  for  her  work,  and  to  puncture  Mrs.  Mussel's 
gloom  with  substantial  gifts  and  the  bright  and 
bonny  refurnishing  of  the  Christian  room  for  girls 
such  as  Edna  Miles  pretended  to  be;  to  catch  up 
with  the  girl  who  had  taken  her  "CROWDED  HOUR" 
to  success,  always  on  tour  now,  in  one  of  her  play 
lets,  and  married  to  the  brother  of  "  BROTHER  " 
(" BROTHER"  himself  having  given  up  and  gone  to 
make  the  long  fight  on  the  desert).  She  went,  fur- 
bundled  and  red-cheeked,  to  spend  a  week-end  with 
Deacon  Gillespie  and  "Angerleek"  at  Three 
Meadows,  and  found  one  of  the  daughters  at  home, 
and  the  old  man  told  her  that  two  of  the  sons  were 
coming  for  their  summer  vacations.  Angelique 
was  animated  with  timid  cheer;  he'd  been  differ 
ent,  gentler,  since  Danny.  .  .  . 

Jane  went  back  to  New  York  with  June  in  her 
heart.  Was  not  this  a  part  of  her  life  with 
Michael  since  he  had  sent  her  to  that  lean,  clean 
island  to  snare  back  her  soul?  This  was  part  of 
the  harvest  they  had  sown  together,  for  everything 
she  had  done  since  coming  to  know  him  had  been 
shared  with  him.  There  came  a  moment,  of  course, 
;when  her  sense  of  sanctification  broke  like  a  bub- 

235 


JANE   JOUENEYS    ON 


ble.  "I  feel  like  the  Elsie  Books,"  she  said,  grin 
ning  her  boy's  grin  at  herself.  "I'd  better  go 
home  and  let  Mrs.  Wetherby  put  me  in  my  place !" 

But  even  in  her  Vermont  village  she  found  balm. 
They  might  hold,  with  Mrs.  Hills,  that  "Praise  to 
the  face  is  open  disgrace,"  and  be  chary  of  effu 
sions,  but  Jane  Vail  was  the  brightest  jewel  in 
their  crown,  and  it  was  only  the  deafest  and  dim 
mest  old  ladies  who  asked  her  if  she  was  still  going 
on  with  her  literary  work. 

Mrs.  Wetherby,  although  she  would  never  for 
give  Jane  to  her  dying  day,  was  clearly  thankful 
to  have  Martin  all  to  herself.  She  fed  him  to  re 
pletion  and  washed  and  ironed  his  silk  shirts  with 
her  own  hands,  and  she  loved  to  say  at  meetings 
of  The  Ladies'  Aid  or  The  Tuesday  Club,  "Well, 
Marty  says  his  mother's  his  girl!"  Martin  him 
self  was  heavily  cheerful;  he  could  see  that  Ed 
ward  E.  Hunter  was  pretty  much  tied  down.  It 
would  not  be  very  long,  now,  before  there  was  no 
"Asst."  in  front  of  the  "Cashier"  on  his  door 
at  the  bank. 

The  Hunters  Had  now  what  the  humorist,  Ed 
ward  E.,  called  "almost  three  children,"  and  they 
were  building  on  a  new  nursery  which  would  be, 
without  doubt,  a  hot,  pink  one.  They  had  a  little 
way  of  saying,  "What  have  you  been  writing 

236 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


lately,  Janey?"  which  conveyed,  pleasantly  but 
unmistakably,  that  people  with  their  full  and  busy 
lives  could  not  be  expected  to  keep  up  with  all  the 
lighter  current  literature.  Sarah  Farraday,  her 
earnest,  blonde  face  a  little  lined  and  sharpened, 
had  more  piano  pupils  than  she  could  possibly 
manage;  two  of  her  older  girls  were  taking  the 
beginners  for  her,  and  there  was  a  recital  almost 
every  month  in  the  burlapped  studio  where  once 
the  chubby  driving  horses  had  been  housed.  And 
in  the  old,  elm-shaded  house  where  the  middle- 
aged  maid  still  held  sway,  and  where  Aunt 
Lydia  Vail  had  lived  and  died  in  her  plump 
and  pleasant  creed,  Jane  and  Sarah  spent  the 
night  together,  and  this  time  there  was  no 
sprightly  talk  of  Michael  Daragh  or  Eodney  Har 
rison  and  no  pungent  comparisons  of  them  and 
their  feelings  for  her;  she  was  not  talking  now, 
the  nimble-tongued  Miss  Vail,  but  the  friend  of 
her  youth  looked  long  at  her  glowing  face,  her 
deeply  joyful  eyes,  and  wondered,  and  sighed  a 
little,  and  went  back  to  talk  of  her  most  brilliant 
pupils  and  the  worrying  way  her  mother  had  of 
taking  hard  colds  and  keeping  them.  .  .  . 

Jane  came  away  from  her  village  with  an  en 
tirely  clear  conscience;  no  one  needed  her  there. 
She  was  her  own  woman,  without  let  or  hindrance, 

237 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


with  a  shining  sense  of  good  work  and  good  works 
she  could  wait  for  the  joy  which  was  coming  as  cer 
tainly  as  the  morning. 

Then  she  came  in  late,  one  evening,  to  find 
Michael  Daragh  at  the  dinner  table,  a  little 
browned  and  warmed  from  good  sea  air,  and 
Emma  Ellis  was  there — Mrs.  Hills  having  tele 
phoned  and  asked  her  to  come  to  dinner  and  wel 
come  home  the  wanderer — and  at  once  the  old 
life,  the  old  routine,  the  old  world,  seemed  to  open 
and  swallow  him  completely. 

Lying  wide-eyed  in  the  dark,  hours  later,  Jane 
told  herself  that  even  in  the  midst  of  the  watching 
boarders  his  look  and  word  for  her  had  been  filled 
with  meaning ;  that  it  was  inevitable  that  he  should 
take  Emma  Ellis  home  to  Hope  House ;  that  there 
had  been  no  opportunity  to  ask  her  to  wait  up  for 
him ;  that  she  had  done  the  only  possible  thing  in 
taking  a  bright  and  cheery  leave  of  Mrs.  Hills  and 
coming  up  to  her  rooms.  She  had  waited  an  hour 
in  her  sitting  room — Michael  Daragh  had  often 
dropped  in  for  a  chat  before  she  went  to  Mexico — 
but  when  at  last  she  heard  his  feet  upon  the  stairs, 
they  had  carried  him  steadily  on  and  up  to  his 
own  floor. 

And  the  next  day  and  the  day  after  that  she  told 
herself  that  it  was  perfectly  natural  for  Hope 

238 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


House  and  Agnes  Chatterton  and  kindred  calls 
to  fill  his  every  hour.  She  was  waiting  happily 
and  surely,  and  a  special  delivery  letter  from  Rod 
ney  Harrison  hardly  registered  on  her  conscious 
ness  when  Mabel  brought  it  up  to  her  one  after 
noon.  It  was  a  brief  letter,  turgid,  almost  fierce 
in  its  tone.  Rodney  Harrison  was  not  going  to  be 
put  off  any  longer,  it  appeared.  He  would  meet 
Jane  at  the  theater  that  evening  (where  she  must 
go  to  pass  upon  the  performance  of  a  new  char 
acter-man  in  her  second  gay  little  play)  and  then 
she  was  going  to  supper  with  him,  and  to  drive 
in  his  new  speedster,  and  to  make  up  her  mind — 
no,  not  that,  he'd  made  it  up  for  her,  once  and  for 
all — but  to  settle  this  matter  definitely  and  right. 
She  read  it  with  an  indulgent  smile  and  put  it  down 
on  her  desk.  Good  old  Rodney  .  .  .  good  old 
man-she-met-on-the-boat.  .  .  . 

Her  telephone  rang  at  her  elbow.  She  had  had 
a  soft  little  sleigh  bell  substituted  for  the  harsh, 
commercial  clang  and  even  the  most  utilitarian 
call  took  on  a  tone  of  revelry,  but  now  it  had  an 
especially  gay  and  lilting  sound,  she  thought. 
Michael  Daragh's  voice  over  the  wire  lacked  its 
usual  quality  of  serenity;  he  sounded  unsure  of 
himself;  almost — shy,  and  Jane's  grip  on  the  re 
ceiver  grew  taut  and  her  cheeks  flamed. 

239 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


"It's  the  way  I'm  asking  you  something  now 
I've  never  dared  ask  you  before,  Jane  Vail," 
purled  the  brogue,  "and  I'm  wondering,  dare  IV9 

"I — I'm  wondering,  too,"  said  Jane. 

"  'Tis  nothing  at  all  you  might  be  thinking  it 
is !  Ever  since  I'm  back  I've  been  screwing  up  my 
courage — but  'tis  the  boldest  and  brazenest  thing 
my  like  would  ever  be  daring  to  ask  the  likes  of 
you!"  She  had  never  heard  him  talk  so  like  a 
stage  Irishman  before ;  she  had  never  known  him 
so  moved.  "Whiles  I'm  thinking  you'll  say  me 
'yes/  and  whiles  I'm  thinking  you'll  say  me  'no' 
and  whiles  I'm  destroyed  entirely  with  the  doubt! 
I'll  be  there  inside  the  hour,  or  a  half -hour  itself, 
and  let  you  be  merciful,  Jane  Vail!" 

"I  will  be  waiting,"  she  said,  "and  I  will  bei 
merciful." 

' '  God  love  you ! "  he  cried  and  hung  up  abruptly, 

She  rose  from  her  chair  and  stood  in  the  middle 
of  her  clever  orange  and  black  room,  icy  hands 
clamped  tightly  to  her  burning  cheeks.  So !  Jour 
neys'  end !  She  flew  into  the  other  room  and  with 
unsteady  fingers  divested  herself  of  her  sererely 
smart  business  dress  and  flung  a  creamy  cloud  over 
her  head.  She  justified  this  costume  vigorously 
to  herself.  It  was  five  o'clock — almost  evening — 
and  she  wanted  him  to  see  her  thus,  he  who  had 

240 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


hardly  ever  seen  her  in  other  than  the  bread-and- 
butter  garb  of  every  day,  but  when  she  looked  in 
the  glass  she  shook  her  head.  If  he  had  at  last 
dared  to  ask  her  to  leave  her  sunny  fields  for  his 
shadowed  paths,  was  this  the  vision  to  reassure 
him? 

She  put  on  a  mellow  velvet  of  deepest  brown, 
cunningly  cut,  and  she  had  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  it  made  her  look  like  a  young  queen 
in  an  old  frieze,  but  not,  it  was  to  be  admitted,  like 
a  durable  help-meet  for  a  Settlement  worker. 

Her  windows  were  wide  to  the  tentative  ad 
vances  of  spring  and  now  she  heard  a  ringing 
tread  upon  the  pavement  below,  and  with  breath 
less  haste  she  pulled  off  her  regal  raiment  and 
flung  herself  into  the  primmest  and  plainest  of  her 
work  frocks — a  stern  little  brown  serge  with  Puri 
tan  collar  and  cuffs,  and  this  time  she  nodded  ap 
proval  at  her  reflection.  Here  was,  indeed,  a  crea 
ture  for  human  nature's  daily  food! 

She  heard  his  feet  upon  the  stairs,  his  knuckles 
on  the  door  of  her  sitting  room,  but  she  waited  for 
a  last  long  look.  When  she  looked  into  that  mir 
ror  again,  she  would  see  the  glorified,  glad  face  of 
Michael  Daragh's  love. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE  big  Irishman  was  pulling  burdened 
breaths  and  haste  had  flushed  his  lean 
cheeks,  and  they  faced  each  other  for  an 
instant  in  silence  before  he  caught  her  hands  in  a 
hard  clutch.    "I  will  be  swift/'  he  said,  "the  way 
the  courage  won't  be  oozing  out  of  me !" 

' '  Yes,  Michael  Daragh ! ' '  She  stood  up  straight 
and  proud  before  him,  waiting  for  his  word.  She 
had  waited  long  for  it,  turning  her  back  alike  on 
prosperous,  opulent  love  and  busy  and  purposeful 
spinsterhood,  knowing  that  happiness  for  her  was 
the  grave,  young  saint  whose  chief  concern  would 
be  always  for  the  world's  woe.  Richly  dowered 
though  she  was  in  body  and  brain,  fit  for  a  man's 
whole  devotion,  she  would  be  content  to  share  him 
with  the  submerged,  with  the  besmirched  and  be 
fouled  of  the  earth.  And  at  last  he  was  speaking. 
"Many's  the  bold  boon  I've  begged,  but  never 
the  like  of  this,"  he  said,  his  gray  eyes  holding 
hers,  "but  never  the  like  of  this!  Would  you — 
could  you — be  dining  with  a  dope  fiend!" 

242 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


It  seemed  a  long  time  to  Jane  before  she  worked 
her  hands  free  of  his  clasp  and  heard  her  voice, 
"I — don't  believe  I  understand " 

"Why  would  you,  indeed?"  he  cried,  penitently. 
"Let  you  sit  down  till  I'm  telling  you." 

She  seated  herself  in  her  straight  desk  chair, 
and — "Dining  with  a  dope  fiend,"  she  heard 
herself  saying.  "It  sounds  rather  like  a  line  from 
a  comic  song,  doesn't  it?" 

*  *  A  lad  he  is,  just, ' '  said  Daragh,  earnestly.  * '  It 
got  hold  of  him  after  a  sickness  in  the  smooth  dev- 
il's  way  it  has.  Six  months,  now,  I'm  toiling  with 
him.  Times  I  have  him  on  his  feet,  times  he 's  de 
stroyed  again.  'Twas  a  terrible  pity  I  had  to  be 
leaving  him  the  while  I  was  home  in  Ireland. 
Well,  I  found  him  doing  rare  and  fine,  God  love 
him,  back  at  his  drawing  again  in  the  scrap  of  a 
studio  I  found  for  him,  but  a  pitiful  tangle  of 
nerves  and  fancies.  What  he  needs  now  is  a  friend 
— his  own  sort — some  one  that  speaks  his  own 
tongue.  He  thinks  the  decent  world  will  have  none 
of  him, — a  weak,  pitiful  thing  isn't  worth  the  sav 
ing.  Fair  perished  with  the  lonesomeness,  he  is. 
'I  used  to  know  women,'  he  was  telling  me, ' pretty 
women,  clever  ones;  I  miss  them — the  sound  of 
their  voices  and  the  look  of  their  white  hands  and 
their  making  tea,  and  the  light,  gay  talk  we'd  be 

243 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


having!'  Then  he  sat,  limp,  with  the  grit  gone 
out  of  him.  'Not  one  of  them  would  come  near  me, 
now/  he  said.  '  Holding  their  skirts  away  from 
me,  passing  by  on  the  other  side."  And  then — 
may  the  devil  fly  away  with  my  tongue,  Jane  Vail 
— I  heard  myself  saying,  'There's  one  won't  be 
doing  that,  lad !  There 's  one,  the  best  and  fairest 
and  cleverest  of  them  all,  the  wonder-worker  of 
the  world/  I  said,  'will  be  putting  on  her  gayest 
gear  and  be  coming  here  to  make  tea-talk  with 
you,  the  way  you'll  think  the  month  of  June  itself 
is  happened  in  your  studio!'  "  He  stopped,  look 
ing  down  at  her  with  anxious  eyes. 

Jane  took  her  own  time  about  looking  at  him, 
and  when  she  did  it  was  almost  as  if  she  had  never 
seen  him  before.  He  was  still  wearing  his  winter 
suit,  this  soft  spring  weather,  and  it  wanted  press 
ing  and  his  boots  were  far  from  new.  He  stooped 
a  little  as  he  stood  there,  waiting  for  her  verdict, 
as  if  even  the  broadest  shoulders  wearied  finally 
of  other  people's  loads,  and  the  line  of  his  zealot's 
jaw  was  sharper  than  ever.  She  felt  nothing  but 
scorn  for  him.  He  had  birth,  breeding,  abilities ; 
why  must  he  wrap  himself  in  monkish  sackcloth,  in 
monkish  celibacy?  Eage  rose  in  her,  rage  and 
ridicule  for  herself.  So,  this  was  the  man  for 
whom  she  had  dressed  herself  three  times,  cun- 

244 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


ningly  and  provocatively?  This  was  the  man  to 
whom  she  had  come  running  with  her  heart  held 
out  in  her  hands, — her  sane,  sound,  hitherto  unas 
sailable  heart,  twenty-eight  years  old, — when  he 
required  of  her  merely  a  service  such  as  he  might 
ask  of  any  of  his  Settlement  workers, — money 
from  this  one,  work  from  that  one,  charm  and 
cheer  from  her,  Jane  Vail. 

Worry  throve  in  his  eyes.  "I'm  doubting  I  had 
the  right  to  ask  you.  Is  it  too  much,  indeed? " 

Jane  rose,  lifting  her  shoulders  ever  so  slightly. 
"The  right?  Why,  surely.  You're  asking  me  for 
an  hour  or  so  of  my  time  just  as  you  would  ask  me 
for  a  check.  I  am  to  lift  up  the  light  of  my  coun 
tenance  on  this  young  gentleman,  then,  and  con 
vince  him  that  he  is  still  socially  desirable?" 

"Ill  be  praising  you  all  the  long  days  of  my  life 
if  you  will,"  he  said  humbly,  continuing  to  stand. 

"Sit  down,  then,  while  I  put  on  my  hat,"  she 
said  carelessly,  quite  as  she  would  have  spoken  to 
a  messenger,  and  moved  toward  her  bedroom  door. 

"Please" — he  took  one  step  after  her — "it's 
not  but  your  little  brown  gown  would  charm  the 
birds  off  the  bush,— and  it's  not  that  I'd  be  men 
tioning  it  or  asking  it  for  myself,  but " 

"No,"  said  Jane,  and  her  voice  was  as  bright 

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JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


and  dry  as  her  eyes,  "one  could  hardly  fancy  you 
asking  anything  for  yourself. " 

"I  would  not,  indeed,"  he  said,  grateful  for  the 
exoneration,  "but  I'm  wondering  .  .  .  wouldn't 
you  seem  grander  to  the  lad  in  a — a  gayer  frock, 
perhaps  I ' ' 

"Very  possibly  I  would,"  said  Jane,  reasonably. 
"But  I  shall  have  to  keep  you  waiting  a  little 
longer  then."  She  went  into  the  other  room  and 
shut  the  door  slowly  and  softly  to  demonstrate  the 
perfect  control  of  her  nerves,  and  proceeded  to 
make  her  fourth  toilet  for  the  hour.  She  took  her 
time  and  did  her  best,  which  was  very  good  in 
deed  when  she  put  her  mind  to  it,  and  she  hummed 
a  snatch  of  song  all  the  while,  just  loud  enough  to 
carry  to  the  study,  but  every  time  she  met  her 
shamed  and  furious  eyes  in  the  glass  her  face 
crisped  into  hotter  flame  and  she  stopped  singing., 

She  kept  him  waiting  for  twenty-five  minutes, 
but  his  eyes  silently  acquitted  her  of  having  wasted 
her  time.  They  set  off  at  once,  Jane  agreeing 
pleasantly  that  it  would  be  better  to  walk.  Michael 
Daragh  had  never  seen  her  more  alert  and  alive 
to  the  things  about  her.  Nothing  escaped  her 
darting  glance, — the  lyrical,  first  grass  in  the 
Square,  the  stolid  and  patient  tiredness  of  an  Ital 
ian  crone  on  a  bench,  the  pictorial  quality  of  a 

246 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


hurdy-gurdy  man,  and  yet,  for  all  her  chattiness, 
the  smart  young  person  beside  him  seemed  leagues 
upon  leagues  away  from  him.  He  supposed,  miser 
ably,  that  she  was  aghast  at  him  for  this  prepos 
terous  demand  upon  her,  but  he  was  not  penitent ; 
he  would  have  done  it  again.  His  people's  needs 
were  to  be  met  with  anything  he  would  buy,  bor 
row,  or  beg  for  them,  and  this  radiant  creature's 
beauty  and  light  were  only  given  to  her  in  trust, 
after  all,  to  be  dispensed  and  diffused. 

" You've  the  step  of  a  gypsy  boy,"  he  said  pres 
ently,  "for  all  the  foolish  shoes  you  will  be  wear 
ing.  "We're  here  now.  "Tis  here  he  has  his  little 
hole  of  a  studio." 

It  was  a  decent  enough  place  for  working  and 
living  and  Jane  had  no  doubt  whatever  that 
Daragh  paid  the  rent.  Their  host  was  discovered 
bending  over  a  chafing  dish  which  gave  forth  an 
arresting  aroma.  He  was  a  sallow  youth  with 
quick  hands  and  too-bright  eyes  and  he  spoke  in 
nervous  jerks.  "How-do-you-do?  How-do-you- 
do?  Awfully  good  of  you.  Daragh  says  you  are 
interested  in  drawings — just  look  round,  will  you? 
I'll  have  this  mess  ready  in  a  minute.  Daragh 
said  he  had  to  go  up  to  town  early,  so  we'll  have  a 
combination  supper  tea."  He  flew  to  test  the 
coffee,  sputtering  in  a  percolator. 

247 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Jane,  slipping  out  of  her  wrap,  moved  slowly 
and  graciously  about  the  little  room,  well  and 
pleasantly  aware  of  Michael's  anxious  eyes  upon 
her.  His  wretched  friend  should  have  all  the 
charm  and  cheer  which  he  had  begged  for  him,  but 
he  himself  should  sit  hungry  at  the  feast.  She 
picked  up  a  bold  sketch  in  strong  color  and  held 
it  off  with  a  very  real  exclamation  of  interest. 
"This  is  good,  Mr.  Randal !  This  thing  of  the  old 
woman  and  pushcart!  I  like  it  a  lot.  And  the 
bakeshop!  It's  good  stuff,  all  of  it.  What  are 
you  doing  with  it?" 

"Nothing,"  said  the  young  man,  sullenly,  his 
thin  fingers  beginning  to  pluck  at  his  face.  "I've 
just  started  again.  I've  been  .  .  .  ill.  I  suppose 
Daragh's  told  you — about  me?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jane,  easily,  "he's  told  me  every 
thing,  I  think,  but  what  I'm  interested  in  now  is — 
what  are  you  going  to  do  with  this  stuff?" 

"I  don't  know,"  he  said,  slackly.  "It  depends 
on  how  I  feel.  Some  days" — his  eyes  shifted  and 
fled  before  her  gaze — "well,  you  know  how  it  is 
yourself  with  your  own  work, — when  you're  in  the 
mood — when  you  have  an  inspiration " 

"I  don't  know  anything  about  that  sort  of  pif 
fle,"  said  his  guest,  severely.  "It's  my  mood  to 
beat  my  poet's  piano  four  solid  hours  a  day,  and 

248 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


I  shouldn  't  know  an  inspiration  if  I  met  one  in  my 
mush  bowl!" 

He  produced  a  nervous  laugh.  "Ah, — but  you 
have  your  market!  You're  there!  There's  the 
urge — the  spur " 

She  looked  from  the  crisp  and  living  lines  of 
his  pictures  to  his  dead,  young  flesh,  to  his  fingers, 
locked  together  and  straining,  to  keep  them  from 
their  telltale  plucking.  "Look  here,"  she  said, 
"why  shouldn't  we  do  something  together?" 

"We — togeth — "  he  sat  down  limply  on  the  end 
of  his  bed-couch,  staring,  and  she  heard  Michael's 
quickened  breath  behind  her. 

'  '  Yes !  Let 's  try  a  calendar  of  New  York.  I  've 
always  had  one  in  the  attic  of  my  mind.  Twelve 
pictures,  you  know,  with  bits  of  verse,  of  prose, — 
sketches  like  these  of  yours  here.  There  are  sev 
eral  which  would  do  just  as  they  stand.  This  sort 
of  thing,  you  know,  but  balanced — Grand  Street 
pushcarts  and  a  group  of  girls  going  into  Lucy- 
Gertrude's  on  Fifth  Avenue." 

"I  get  you,"  he  cried,  jumping  to  his  feet. 
"Colonel's  lady  and  Judy  O'Grady " 

"But  no  propaganda!" 

"No,  no, — cut  the  Sob  Sister  stuff, — just  the 
pattern  of  it  all,  the  mosaic " 

"Yes, — done  objectively!" 

249 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


'  '  Right !  Gad, — that  sounds  like  a  corking  idea ! 
"When  can  we  start  ?  Have  you  the  text  or — Good 
Lord — my  eats ! "  He  dashed  to  the  noisy  chafing- 
dish,  a  faint  color  creeping  up  into  the  unpleasant 
whiteness  of  his  skin.  "Everything's  done! 
Where  will  you  sit,  Miss  Vail?  Give  her  this  tray, 
will  you,  Daragh — and  the  napkin,  man !  Can  she 
reach  the  sandwiches  ?  Oh,  I  'm  forgetting  my  per 
fectly  good  salad !  Well,  how  is  it !  I  'm  not  mucli 
of  a  cheffonier,  but " 

"It's  melt-in-the-mouth,"  said  Miss  Vail, 
warmly.  "I'm  going  to  have  twice  of  every 
thing!"  She  drew  him  out;  she  led  him  on;  she 
kept  the  color  in  his  face  and  his  fingers  quiet. 
By  every  pretty  means  in  her  power  she  made  it 
clear  that  she  was  having  an  uncommonly  good 
time,  that  he  was  distinctly  her  sort  of  person. 

Michael  Daragh  sat  back  with  deep  wonder  in 
his  eyes.  In  all  her  exquisite  plumage  she  had 
alighted  in  this  dull  place,  filling  it  with  freshness. 
And  an  onlooker  would  have  gathered  that  the 
young  artist  and  the  beautiful  lady  who  wrote 
were  the  best  of  merry  chums,  the  silent  man  in 
the  background  a  civilly  tolerated  outsider. 

After  a  while  something  of  this  seemed  to 
strike  young  Randal.  "Look  here,  Daragh,  you 
haven't  to  start  uptown  yet!  Why  don't  you  con- 

250 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


tribute  something  to  the  gayety  of  nations? 
Haven't  you  any  parlor  tricks  f ' '  Then  he  caught 
up  his  own  work  and  his  grin  faded.  "Tricks  .  .  . 
yes,  that's  what  he  can  do,  Miss  Vail.  Conjuring 
tricks.  He  can  turn  a  skulking  alley  rat  into 
something  faintly  resembling  a  man — but" — his 
courage  and  brightness  fell  from  him  like  a  mask 
er's  domino  on  the  stroke  of  twelve  and  the  fin 
gers  rose  to  his  face,  picking  and  plucking — "he 
can't  keep  it  from  turning  back  again." 

"I  can,  indeed,  lad,"  said  the  Irishman,  stoutly. 

"I  don't  know,  Daragh  ...  I  don't  know." 
He  leaned  back  on  the  couch,  spineless  with  ner 
vous  exhaustion,  and  Jane  felt  a  sick  distaste  and 
horror  enveloping  her. 

*  '  'Tis  a  true  word,  laddie, ' '  said  Michael.  ' '  You 
don't  know;  none  of  us  know — and  we  don't  have 
to  know,  praises  be,  beyond  the  next  hour,  beyond 
the  next  step  on  the  path. ' '  He  rose  and  crossed 
slowly  to  the  young  man  and  pushed  him  gently 
down  until  he  was  resting  at  full  length  on  the 
couch.  "Easy,  now!  Let  you  lie  there  at  your 
ease.  Miss  Vail  knows  how  you  haven't  the  whole 
of  your  strength  in  you  yet,  and  you  painting  and 
drawing  the  day  long!" 

Young  Eandal  muttered  something  brokenly  and 
tried  to  rise,  but  the  big  Irishman  held  him  firmly. 

251 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


"Easy,  I'm  telling  you!"  The  boy  relaxed, 
stretching  out  to  his  lank  length,  one  arm  crooked 
childishly  over  his  eyes,  and  Michael  Daragh  sat 
down  beside  him,  his  long  legs  folded  under  him, 
on  the  floor.  "  'Tis  the  true  word,  surely,"  he 
said.  "We  don't  know,  indeed.  And — glory  be — 
there's  many  the  time  that  the  thing  you've  braced 
yourself  so  fine  and  strong  to  stand  doesn't  hap 
pen  at  all,  and  you  never  have  to  stand  it.  That 
was  the  way  of  it  with  Maggie  Kinsella  at  home," 
he  said. 

Jane,  seeing  his  intention,  stepped  to  the  door 
and  snapped  off  the  overhead  light,  and  tilted  the 
shade  on  the  lamp  until  Randal's  couch  was  in 
shadow. 

"I'm  so  ashamed  .  .  .  with  her  here  .  .  ."  it 
was  a  muffled  whisper  from  under  the  shrouding 
arm, — "so  rotten  weak.  .  .  ." 

"This  Maggie  Kinsella  makes  the  finest  lace 
for  miles  about,"  said  Michael,  unhearing,  un 
heeding.  "Rare  tales  she  would  be  telling  me  and 
I  no  higher  than  the  sill  of  the  window  there,  and 
I'd  thought  to  find  her  long  dead  and  buried 
surely,  the  way  she  was  always  as  old  as  the  Abbey 
itself.  But  no — there  she  was  still  in  her  bit  of 
a  cottage,  the  time  I  was  just  home,  the  oldest 
old  woman  I  ever  saw  out  of  a  mummy's  wrap- 

252 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


pings  and  like  a  witch  indeed  with,  the  poor,  pock 
marked  face  she  has." 

The  figure  on  the  couch  was  relaxing  more  and 
more  now,  and  the  Irishman  sank  his  voice  to  a 
purling  murmur  of  brogue. 

Jane  found  a  low  chair  and  propped  her  elbow 
on  the  arm  of  it  and  leaned  her  cheek  on  her  hand 
and  closed  her  eyes.  She  did  not  want  to  look 
at  young  Eandal  and  she  found  that  she  could 
not  look  at  Michael  Daragh.  She  was  glad  to  be 
in  a  corner  of  the  little  room  where  the  faint  light 
of  the  lamp  did  not  penetrate ;  she  wished  it  might 
have  been  complete  darkness  to  cover  her.  She 
was  so  unutterably  tired  .  .  .  never  in  her  life  had 
she  been  so  tired.  And  Michael  Daragh,  her  best 
friend  of  four  good  years,  her — what  should  she 
say? — dream  lover?  Yes,  that  was  sufficiently 
cheap  and  sentimental  and  maudlin  for  the  sort  of 
thing  she  had  indulged  in, — her  dream  lover  for 
two  blissful  months,  seemed  as  much  of  a  stranger 
to  her  now,  as  strange  and  as  unpleasantly  dis 
tasteful  as  the  young  artist  and  dope  fiend  on  the 
sagging  bed-couch. 

"When  the  boy  fell  asleep,  she  would  creep  away, 
and  away! 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MEANWHILE,  the  Irishman's  voice  went 
steadily  on. 
6 '  Well,  I  told  her  there  were  great 
tales  going  the  world  over  about  her  lace  making 
and  her  getting  famous  and  proud  through  the 
length  of  the  land  and  I  mind  well  the  cackle  of  a 
laugh  she  gave.  'The  loveliest  lace,  is  it?  Now, 
isn  't  that  the  great  wonder  surely  ?  The  wizenedy, 
wrinkled  old  hag  with  the  God-help-you  face  makes 
the  loveliest  lace — '  Then  she  stopped  short  off 
and  clapped  a  claw  over  her  mouth  and  the  scar 
on  her  pockmarked  face  was  a  pitiful  thing  to  see. 

"  'The  curse  of  the  crows  on  my  tongue/  she 
said.  'Is  himself  out  there  in  the  sun  the  way 
he'd  be  hearing  me!  No!  Glory  be  to  God  then, 
he's  off  to  the  Crossroads,  to  be  picking  up  a  cop 
per  maybe  and  the  people  going  by  to  the  Fair.' 

"I  asked  her  why  she  didn't  want  her  husband 
to  be  hearing  her  make  mock  of  her  face,  and  she 
said,  'Have  you  the  hunger  on  you  for  a  tale,  still, 
man  grown  that  you  are?  Well,  then,  let  you  sit 

254 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


down,  lad,  and  listen  till  I'm  telling  you  the  whole 
of  it.  Time  was  when  I  had  a  face  on  me  would 
keep  a  man  from  his  sleep,  and  'tis  no  lie  I'm  tell 
ing  you.  Tall  and  fine  I  was,  hair  like  a  black 
bird's  wing,  skin  like  new  milk  with  the  flush  of  the 
dawn  on  it,  eyes  like  a  still  pool  in  the  deep  of  a 
wood.  Larry  Kinsella  was  ever  the  great  lad  for 
making  verses  up  out  of  his  own  head.  "Roses  in 
Snow,"  is  the  silly  name  he  would  be  calling  me.' 
Then  she  rocked  herself  to  and  fro  and  crooned 
in  the  cracked  old  voice  she  had — 

"  'Faith  and  hope  and  charity, 
A  man  has  need  of  three ! 
I've  the  faith  and  hope  in  you, 
You've  charity  for  me ! 

"  'With  your  lips  and  cheeks  the  rose, 
That  is  blooming  in  the  snow, 
Yourself  is  all  the  miracle 
A  man  would  need  to  know ! ' 

"  'The  proud,  brazen  hussy  I  was,  God  be  good 
to  us!  Tossing  my  head,  stealing  the  other  girls' 
lads  the  time  we'd  be  footing  it  to  the  tune  of  the 
Kerry  Dance  at  the  Crossroads  in  the  full  of  the 
moon !  Father  Quinn — may  the  angels  spread  his 
bed  smooth — was  always  telling  me  to  take  heed 

255 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


of  my  soul  which  would  last  me  forever,  and  have 
done  with  the  sinful  pride  in  the  skin  and  the  hair 
which  would  wither  like  grass.  But  I  went  my 
ways  with  a  scandalous  come-hither  in  my  eye, 
leaning  over  a  still  pool  till  I'd  see  my  bold  face 
smiling  back  at  me,  and  Larry  Kinsella  stealing 
behind  to  whisper  his  verses  in  my  ear. 

"  'Then  came  the  sickness,  the  plague  that 
shadowed  five  counties  the  way  you'd  see  a  black 
cloud  sailing  down  the  sky  of  a  June  day.  Nary 
a  village  but  paid  its  toll  in  death  and  doom.  One 
of  the  first  I  was,  and  one  of  the  worst.  Wirra, 
the  weeks  I  lay  on  the  sill  of  death's  door, — the 
gray  days,  the  black  nights. 

"  'Came  the  time  when  I  heard  Father  Quinn's 
voice  and  he  sitting  beside  me,  telling  me  slow  and 
easy,  the  way  you'd  be  talking  to  a  child  itself, 
that  Larry  Kinsella  was  mending  and  calling  for 
me.  Well,  I  rose  up,  destroyed  with  the  weakness 
though  I  was,  to  be  on  the  way  to  him,  but  there 
in  the  bit  of  a  glass  on  my  wall  I  saw  my  face  .  .  . 
my  face  .  .  .  Mary,  be  good  to  us  ...  my  face! 
Back  I  fell  in  the  black  pit  of  despair,  praying  for 
death  itself.  But  it  would  not  come  to  my  bidding. 
In  the  black  of  the  night,  in  the  gray  of  the  dawn, 
the  dreams  that  tormented  me!  Larry's  voice, 
wheedling  and  soft  in  my  ear — 

256 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


4  With  your  lips  and  cheeks  the  rose, 
That  is  blooming  in  the  snow ' 

"  'And  always  Father  Quinn,  wasted  and  worn 
with  care  for  the  living  and  prayer  for  the  dead, 
bidding  me  rise  up  on  my  two  feet  and  go  to  the 
lad  I  loved.  Love,  was  it?  God  forgive  me,  the 
way  I  misnamed  it  then. 

"  'Well,  then,  in  the  dusk  of  one  day  I  went  with 
him,  me  leaning  for  weakness  on  his  tired  arm. 
Out  of  every  house  peered  a  face,  but  there  was  no 
lad  begging  a  smile  of  me  and  no  green  envy  at 
all  in  the  glance  of  the  girls.  When  we  were  well 
past  the  whole  of  them  I  went  down  on  my  two 
knees  in  the  dirt  of  the  road,  the  way  I'd  be  pray 
ing  at  a  shrine  itself,  for  there  was  a  white  moon 
rising  in  the  soul  of  me  and  I  began  to  see  clear. 
"Mary,  Mother,"  I  said,  "God  forbid  the  likes  of 
me  to  be  driving  a  bargain  with  yourself,  but  give 
me  the  one  thing  only  and  I'll  never  pester  your 
ear  again  all  the  days  of  my  life.  Here  in  the 
dust  I  make  a  heap  of  all  my  sins  and  vanities, — 
the  toss  of  my  head  and  the  tilt  of  my  chin,  the 
love-looks  of  the  lads  and  the  black  hate  of  the 
girls,  and  I'll  burn  them  for  a  sacrifice  the  way 
the  heathen  would  be  doing  and  go  joyful  on  my 
way  with  the  ashes  in  my  mouth !  Leave  the  chil- 

257 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


dren  to  run  from  me,  me,  the  one-time  wonder  of 
the  weeping  west ;  leave  the  girls  to  make  mock  of 
my  face ;  only  Mary,  Mother,  for  the  sake  of  the 
joy  he  had  in  me,  let  Larry  Kinsella  only  of  all 
the  world  be  seeing  me  still  with  the  eyes  of  love, 
and  see  me  fair!" 

"  'Then  was  a  glad  cry  sounding  and  the 
pinched  face  of  Father  Quinn  shining  like  an  altar 
and  it  lighted  up  for  Easter  itself.  "  Glory  be  to 
God,"  he  cried  out  in  a  great  voice.  "Now  let 
you  make  haste  to  your  lad,  for  I  heard  the  rustle 
of  wings  on  that  prayer  will  carry  it  high!" 

"  'When  Larry  Kinsella  heard  the  sound  of  my 
foot  on  his  step  he  leapt  up.  Wirra  .  .  .  down  all 

the  years  I  can  hear  the  wild  joy  of  him  still 

"Core  of  my  heart,  have  you  come?  Alannah! 
— With  your  lips  and  cheeks  the  rose " 

"  *I  opened  my  mouth  to  cry  shame  on  him, 
mocking  my  face,  but  then  the  peace  of  God  came 
down  on  me  like  a  deep  rain  on  a  parched  field, 
and  I  knew  what  way  it  would  be  with  the  two  of 
us  all  the  long  days  of  this  world.  Larry  Kinsella 
was  blind.'  " 

Michael  had  been  speaking  more  and  more 
slowly  and  softly  and  he  did  not  move  for  many 
moments  after  he  had  finished  his  tale.  Then  he 
stealthily  rose  and  bent  over  young  Kandal,  and 

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JANE   JOUBNEYS   ON 


tiptoed  away.  " Asleep,"  his  lips  barely  formed 
the  word,  and  he  motioned  Jane  to  follow  him. 
She  caught  up  her  wrap  and  crept  after  him. 

"I  wonder,"  Daragh  paused  in  the  outer  hall, 
4 'would  I  better  cover  him  up?  " 

Jane  nodded. 

"Wait,  then!    I'll  be  soon  back!" 

When  he  came  out  again  he  was  smiling.  "Fine 
and  fast  asleep  he  is.  He'll  never  open  an  eye  for 
hours !  I'll  look  in  on  him  again,  on  my  way  home 
to-night.  You  were  the  wonder  of  the  world  to 
him,  Jane  Vail.  But" — he  halted  on  the  sidewalk 
and  peered  contritely  at  her  through  the  soft 
spring  twilight, — "you  are  cruel  weary!" 

"I  am  .  .  .' tired,"  said  Jane. 

His  voice  gathered  alarm.  "I've  never  seen 
you  the  like  of  this.  Shall  I  be  finding  a  cab  to 
rush  you  home?" 

Pride  (where  was  her  decent  pride?)  rallied  in 
her,  and  took  the  place  of  the  earlier,  racking  rage. 
"I  am  not  going  home.  I  am  going  uptown — to 
the  theater.  I've  a  new  man  in  the  character 
part."  Suddenly  she  knew  what  she  was  going 
to  do.  "I  am  going  to  meet  Eodney  Harrison 
there,  and  we  are  going  to  have  supper,  and  to 
drive!"  Her  voice  grew  decisive  again.  That 
was  it.  Eodney  Harrison.  The  man-she-met-on- 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


the-boat.  He  would  be  waiting  for  her,  and  he 
wanted  her,  and  she  intended  to  want  him.  She 
visualized  his  special  delivery  letter,  lying  on  her 
desk.  Eodney  was  quite  justified.  They  would 
"settle  the  matter  once  and  for  all,  definitely  and 
right."  She  would  marry  Eodney  Harrison,  and 
they  would  live  like  sane  human  beings,  comfort 
ably,  logically,  merrily,  and  there  would  be  no 
dope  fiends  with  plucking  fingers  and  no  Fallen 
Sisters  and  self-righteous  settlement  workers  and 
no  drab  days  and  drab  ways  in  their  scheme  of 
things. 

"Well,  then/'  Michael  was  still  staring  at  her, 
unhappily,  "will  it  be  the  bus,  or  a  taxi?  Myself 
must  go  in  the  subway  to  another  poor  lad  who  is 
waiting  in  Ninety-first  Street,  but " 

' '  I  may  as  well  take  the  subway,  too. "  (He  was 
not  to  suppose  or  surmise  that  it  bothered  or  bur 
dened  her  to  be  with  him.)  "It  will  make  me  too 
early,  but  there's  a  lot  to  talk  over  with  them  all. 
I've  rather  neglected  things  lately."  (Mooning 
in  her  candy-motto  paradise!) 

"I'm  doubting  the  upper  air  is  better  for  you, 
the  way  you're  so  white  and  weary,"  Michael 
shook  his  head,  but  they  went  down  from  the  mild 
spring  weather  into  the  glare  and  blare  of  the 
world  beneath.  It  was  the  hour  of  the  last  mad 

260 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


homeward  rush  of  the  workers.  They  found  seats, 
but  at  the  next  station  the  packing  and  jamming 
began,  and  when  they  left  the  third  stop  the  car 
was  a  solid,  cohesive  mass  of  steaming  humanity. 
Talk  was  mercifully  impossible.  Only  once 
Michael  spoke,  when  he  got  up  to  give  his  place  to 
a  thin  girl  in  a  soiled  middy  blouse. 

"  You  could  be  getting  out  at  the  next,  you  know, 
to  fill  your  lungs  with  decent  air,  and  go  on  in 
the  bus " 

She  shook  her  head  and  smiled  very  reasonably. 
She  fixed  her  eyes  on  a  vehement  advertisement 
in  shrieking  colors  and  tried  to  see  how  many  small 
words  she  could  make  out  of  the  large  one. 
"L-i-n-e,  line,  and  L-i-s-t,  list" — (she  would  go 
into  the  leading  lady's  dressing  room  and  do  her 
hair  and  put  some  color  in  her  cheeks  before  she 
saw  Rodney.  Good  old  Eodney!  He  had  been 
faithful,  as  faithful  and  patient  as  Marty 
Wetherby!) — i-n,  in,  and  r-i-" — the  car  was 
plunged  into  swift  darkness  and  the  train  shrieked 
and  jolted  to  a  dead  stop. 

The  girl  to  whom  Michael  had  given  his  seat 
jumped  up  and  began  to  emit  short,  gasping 
screams. 

" There's  no  harm  at  all,"  said  Daragh,  pushing 

261 


JANE   JOUBNEYS    ON 


her  back  into  her  seat.  "The  lights  will  be  on 
again  in  two  flips  of  a  dead  lamb's  tail!" 

The  crowd  took  it  good-naturedly  enough. 
There  were  whistles  and  catcalls  from  one  end  of 
the  car  and  a  noisy  imitation  of  a  kiss.  Girls 
giggled  nervonsly.  A  man  grew  qnemlons: 
"Where  are  we?  That's  all  I  want  to  know. 
Where  are  we?  If  we're  near  a  station,  we  can 
get  out  and  walk.  Where  are  we?" 

The  minutes  dragged.  Men  hurried  by  in  the 
outer  darkness  with  lanterns,  dim  and  ghoulish 
figures.  Some  one's  foot  was  trodden  on  and  a 
surly  scuffle  ensued.  ' '  Cut  that  out ! ' '  said  a  sharp 
voice.  "You  don't  want  to  start  nothin'  here!" 

Then  the  first  man  began  again.  "Where  are 
we?  That's  what  I  want  to  know!"  A  woman 
whimpered  that  she  was  going  to  faint. 

"Can't!"  called  /a  gruff  voice,  facetiously. 
"There  ain't  room!" 

But  it  was  immediately  evident  that  she  had 
carried  out  her  program  for  there  was  a  shrill 
cry,  "Oh,  for  God's  sake!  Get  her  up!  Get  her 
up!  Get  her  up!  I'm — I'm  standing  on  her!" 

People  began  to  sway  and  mutter,  to  push  and 
surge.  Jane  felt  herself  lifted  and  swung  to  her 
feet  on  the  seat  where  she  had  been  sitting,  and 
the  Irishman's  big  body  was  spread  like  a  shield 

262 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


before  her.  His  hands  were  clamped  upon  the 
thin  shoulders  of  the  girl  in  the  middy  blouse,  but 
he  twisted  his  head  to  speak  to  Jane.  "It  will  be 
all  right  in  a  wink,"  he  said. 

"Yes,"  she  answered. 

The  first  man  began  to  shout,  "Open  this  door! 
Want  us  to  die  like  rats  in  a  trap?  Open  this 
door!"  There  was  a  sound  of  splintering  glass 
and  the  acrid  smell  of  smoke. 

"Fire!"  squealed  the  girl  in  Michael's  hold, 
fighting  to  free  herself. 

"Steady!"  he  soothed.  "Let  you  be  still  now, 
till " 

'  'Fire !  Fire !  Fire ! "  It  ran  from  solo  shrieks 
into  a  frantic  chorus.  The  middy  blouse  girl  bit 
and  clawed  herself  out  of  the  Irishman's  hands 
and  he  turned  and  faced  Jane,  his  grasp  on  the  rail 
above  them,  covering  her  with  his  body.  "Lay 
hold  of  me,"  he  commanded,  and  she  locked  her 
arms  about  his  neck.  The  smoke-laden  air  was 
filled  now  with  the  sound  of  smashing  windows, 
with  labored  breathing  and  moans  and  gasping 
sobs,  with  the  dull  impact  of  blows,  with  the  grind 
ing,  rasping  contact  of  tightly  packed  bodies. 
From  time  to  time  Michael  called  out  to  them  to 
have  patience,  to  have  courage,  to  wait,  and  other 
voices  echoed  his  words,  but  they  were  drowned 

263 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


out  in  the  red  sea  of  panic.  Slowly,  for  all  its  in 
sane  haste,  the  crowd,  that  portion  of  it  still  on  its 
feet,  began  to  work  its  way  through  the  shattered 
windows  and  doors  into  the  black  passage  outside. 
The  pressure  against  Jane  and  Michael  was 
greatly  lessened  and  she  spoke  with  her  lips  close 
to  his  ear. 

"Are  we  just  to  wait  here  until  help  comes?" 

"We  are  just  to  wait  here." 

Presently  she  spoke  again.  "I  am  not  afraid, 
M.  V." 

"I  know  you  are  not.'*  He  added  a  swift  line 
in  Gaelic. 

When  there  was  a  cleared  space  about  them,  they 
sat  down  again  on  the  seat,  hand  in  hand,  like  good 
children.  The  air  was  growing  difficult.  "We 
must  just  wait  until  they  come  for  us,  mustn't 
we  ?  "  She  was  coughing  a  little. 

"We  must  just  wait." 

There  was  a  shuddering  groan  from  the  floor, 
just  at  their  feet,  and  he  bent  with  his  pocket  flash. 
It  was  the  gaunt  girl  in  the  middy  blouse.  .  .  . 
"Keep  fast  hold  of  my  coat,"  said  Daragh.  He 
bent  and  lifted  the  girl  on  to  the  opposite  seat. 
* '  There  must  be  others.  I  must  look. ' ' 

*  '  Let  me  hold  the  flash, ' '  said  Jane.  ' '  That  will 
give  you  both  hands  free.  I  won't  let  go  of  you." 

264 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


They  traversed  the  black  length  of  the  car,  doing 
the  grim  little  they  could  do  where  there  was  any 
thing  to  be  done,  and  then  they  went  back  to  their 
corner.  Jane's  teeth  were  chattering.  "But  I'm 
not  afraid,  M.  D.,"  she  said.  "It's  just — the 
ghoulishness  of  it!  The  abysmal  savagery — I 
can?t  bear  it  I" 

"Many  there  were  as  cool  as  ourselves,"  he 
said,  "swept  on  by  the  panic  and  couldn't  help 
themselves.  It  was  the  wild  few  only  that  brought 
the  curse.  And  let  you  remember  this — for  every 
one  that  pushed  and  fought  and  trampled  there 
are  twenty  up  there  now,  above  ground,  wonder 
ing  what  way  they'll  help  us  the  soonest,  working 
for  us,  risking,  daring " 

"Yes,  I  know  it,"  said  Jane  obediently.  She 
leaned  back  in  her  corner.  It  was  true  that  she 
was  not  afraid.  She  felt  very  peaceful  and  very 
gentle.  The  red  rage  was  gone  and  the  gray  de 
pression,  and  the  scorn  and  the  bitterness,  and 
Eodney  Harrison  was  gone.  She  began  to  talk, 
easily  and  interestedly.  "You  know,  one  looks 
back  on  this  sort  of  thing,  after  it's  all  over,  as 
educational.  One  doesn't  enjoy  having  an  expe 
rience  like  this,  but  having  had  it  makes  for 
growth,  shouldn't  you  say?"  His  grasp  on  her 
hand  tightened  but  he  did  not  answer.  "Well, 

265 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Michael  Daragh,  I've  crowded  about  every  sensa 
tion  into  my  life  except — death.  This  is  really  not 
so  bad  as  being  in  that  Mexican  prison  was !  For 
one  thing,  you're  here" — she  curled  her  fingers 
more  tightly  into  his — "and  there  I  had  only  my 
extremely  civil  engineer.  I  did  my  best  to  fall  in 
love  with  him,  M.  D.,  but  I  couldn't  seem  to  man 
age  it."  She  stopped  to  cough.  "The  air  is  get 
ting  pretty  awful,  isn't  it?  But  I  don't  believe  it 
will  be  much  longer,  now,  do  you?" 

"I  do  not,"  he  said. 

"I'm  rather  proud  of  us,  aren't  you,  Michael 
Daragh? — Of  course,  I  expect  I  shouldn't  be  so — 
so  Nathan  Hale  and  Casabianca  and — and  Lady 
Jane  Grey — if  I  didn't  know  that  we'll  soon  be  up 
in  the  air  again,  safe — 'breathing  ..."  She 
coughed  again,  but  her  voice  went  on,  husky,  gal 
lant.  "If  we  could  have  looked  an  hour  ahead  an 
hour  ago,  you  and  I,  dripping  pity  on  that  boy, 
feeling  so  utterly  secure  ourselves — 'Why  should 
the  spirit  of  mortal  "be  proud?'  M.  D.,  I  got  a  sil 
ver  thimble  for  learning  that  by  heart  when  I  was 
eight.  Eollicking  nursery  rhyme,  wasn't  it?  But 
I  adored  it,  especially  the  parts  I  didn't  under 
stand.  'From  the  gilded  saloon  to  the  bier  and 
the  shroud' — you  know,  for  years  I  thought  it 
meant  one  of  those  fascinating  places  with  swing- 

266 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


ing  half -doors  and  rows  and  rows  of  feet  visible 
from  the  outside,  into  which  one's  nurse  would 
never  let  one  peer,  and  I  thought  'shroud'  was  a 
sort  of  cracker  to  be  eaten  with  the  beer!  Wasn't 
that  funny?  I  remember  thinking " 

But  now  the  big  Irishman  stopped  her  with  a 
groan  which  shook  him  from  head  to  heel.  "Core 
of  my  heart,"  he  said,  "will  you  hush  your  pre 
tending?  God  forgive  me  for  a  heedless  fool  has 
dragged  you  down  to  a  black  death  this  night ! " 

"What,"  said  Jane,  interestedly,  "what  was  it 
you  called  me?" 

He  caught  her  up  to  him,  fiercely,  furiously,  and 
she  could  feel  him  trembling,  that  tall  tower  of 
strength,  like  a  terrified  child.  "Core  of  my 
heart,"  he  said  again,  and  now  his  wild  kisses 
separated  his  wild  words — "Acushla  .  .  *  Mar- 
vourneen  .  .  .  Soils  na  Suite  ..."  and  the  tide 
of  fear  which  had  been  rising  in  her  turned  and 
slipped  away  into  a  sea  of  rose  and  silver  bliss, 
and  with  it  went  forever  the  hot  shame  of  the 
afternoon  and  the  cold  misery  of  the  evening. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  could  not  breathe  at  all 
now,  what  with  the  acrid  air  and  the  power  of  his 
arms  about  her,  but  it  did  not  matter.  "I  that 
loved  you  from  the  first  moment  my  eyes  were 
resting  on  the  wonder  of  your  face  and  heard  the 

267 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


harps   sounding  in  your  voice,  I  have  brought 
you  death !" 

"No,  Michael  Daragh,"  she  said,  hoarsely, 
breathlessly,  "you  have  brought  me  life!" 

His  voice  was  scorched  and  dry  with  smoke,  and 
she  had  to  strain  her  ears  to  hear  his  lyric  love- 
making.  "Journeys'  end" — she  thought  again  as 
she  had  thought  that  afternoon.  Sarah  Farraday 
would  say  that  she  was  making  phrases,  trying  to 
be  clever,  even  in  this  great  and  terrible  moment, 
— to  be  thinking  that  she  had  taken  the  subway 
to  the  heights.  .  .  .  Presently  she  put  a  reproving 
hand  over  his  lips. 

"Oh,  Michael  Daragh!  I  expect  I  don't  know 
God  as  well  as  you  do,  but  I  know  Him  better  than 
that!  Of  course  we'll  be  saved!  Don't  keep  say 
ing  you  wouldn't  tell  me  this  if  we  weren't  dying! 
Nothing  could  happen  to  us  ...  now  .  .  .  what 
do  you  suppose  makes  me  so  sleepy?  „  .  .  Do  you 
mind  if  I  just  sleep  a — f-f ew  minutes ?  I'm  pretty 
— t— tired.  .  .  ." 

He  gathered  her  up  wholly  into  his  arms.  "No, 
no!  Don't  go  to  sleep!  Don't  be  leaving  me  till 
you  must!" 

She  cuddled  down  cozily,  like  a  drowsy  baby. 
"M.  D.  .  .  .  did  you  ever  play " 

"What,  Acushla?" 

268 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


"Babes  in  the  "Woods?  That's  what  we  are, 
aren't  we?"  and  she  tried  to  sing,  huskily,  gasp 
ing 

"  'And  when  they  were  dead, 
The  robins  so  red 

Brought  straw  .  .  .  berry  .  .  .  bios  .  .  .  soms 
And  over  them '  " 

"Core  of  my  heart,"  he  cried  out,  "Don't  be 
leaving  me!" 

"Michael  Daragh,  dearest,"  she  said  quite 
clearly  and  steadily,  "I  love  you  better  than  all 
the  world — and  I've  loved  the  world  a  lot!"  Her 
lips  groped  to  find  his  and  then  she  was  limp  in 
his  clasp. 

Waves;  waves;  WAVES!  Little,  lulling  ones, 
singing  her  to  sleep;  great,  shining  ones,  splash 
ing  and  crashing,  lifting  and  flinging  her;  voices, 
tiresome,  insistent,  calling  her,  calling  her,  calling 
her  in  from  play 

"There,  now,  God  love  her,  she'll  do!"  said 
Michael  Daragh.  "No,  praises  be,  we'll  not  need 
the  ambulance!  I've  a  machine  here  will  take  us 
round  the  park  till  she 's  drunk  her  fill  of  clean  air 
again.  .  .  .  No,  thank  you  kindly,  I  can  take  her 

myself,  ...  If  you'll  open  the  door,  just " 

269 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Out  in  the  sharp  night  wind,  memory  picked  its 
way  back,  hesitating,  through  the  chaos.  ' '  Let  you 
rest  easy,  now,"  said  the  Irishman's  voice,  steady, 
cheerful,  reassuring.  " Don't  be  talking  yet,  the 
way  you've  no  breath  in  you  at  all.  Drink  deep 
of  the  good  air,  just,  till-— what  ?  Well,  then,  'twas 
an  accident  in  the  subway,  and  you  fainted  and  I 
carried  you  out,  and  we  came  up  a  manhole." 

Barren  words  these,  naked  of  charm  .  .  .  bleak 
.  .  .  bare.  She  beheld  herself,  her  bright  spring 
plumage  smirched  and  draggled,  all  her  pinions 
trailing.  About  the  man,  too,  there  was  something 
lacking,  something  failing,  something  unendurably 
missing  and  gone.  "Your  arms  ..."  she  said, 
fretfully.  Speech  was  still  a  burden.  She  lifted 
his  arms  and  laid  them  about  her,  but  they  fell 
slackly  away. 

"We  are  back  in  the  world  again,  Jane  Vail," 
he  said.  "You  in  yours  and  I  in  mine,  and  'tis  a 
far  cry  between  the  two.  'Twas  the  black  hole  of 
death  loosed  my  tongue,  but  now " 

"  Michael  Daragh" — she  stopped  speaking  and 
gave  herself  over  to  the  task  of  tugging  his  arm 
about  her  and  holding  it  there  with  both  her  grimy 
hands — "Michael  Daragh,  we  d — died  together 
very  splendidly — b — but  we're  going  to  1 — live  to 
gether  just  as  well ! ' ' 


CHAPTER  XX 

(TELEGRAM) 

New  York,  N.  Y. 

4—10. 

Miss  SARAH  FARRADAY, 
VALLEY  VIEW, 
VERMONT. 

Engaged. 

JANE  VAIL. 

(TELEGRAM) 

New  York,  N.  Y. 

4-11. 

Miss  SARAH  FARRADAY, 
VALLEY  VIEW, 
VERMONT* 
Michael  Daragh,  of  course,  yon  goose. 

JANE  VAIL. 

New  York, 
April  Twelfth* 
SALLY  DARLING, 

Thanks  for  yonr  two  wires,  thongh  the  first  one 
— "So  happy,  but  who  is  it?"  was  a  bit  feeble 
minded,  you  nrast  admit.  Could  yon  imagine  me 

271 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


marrying  any  one  in  the  wide  world  but  Michael 
Daragh?  Haven't  I  always  intended  to  (no  mat 
ter  what  I  may  have  babbled  of  a  man-I-met-on- 
the-boat,  or  of  an  extremely  civil  engineer!)  from 
the  first  instant  I  set  my  wishful  eye  on  his  zealot's 
brow  and  his  fighter's  jaw  and  heard  the  burbling 
brogue  that  might  be  eaten  with  a  spoon! 

It's  taken  me  four  years  and  a  subway  accident, 
but  I  consider  the  time  wholly  well  spent.  I'm 
snugly  and  securely  engaged  to  marry  Michael 
Daragh  and  he's  entirely  resigned  to  it.  In  fact, 
one  might  even  go  so  far  as  to  say,  without  undue 
exaggeration,  that  he  is  pleased! 

(I'll  wager  you  dashed  right  down  to  the 
Woman's  Exchange  and  got  towels!  Aren't  you 
glad  V.  is  such  a  nice,  easy  letter  to  embroider!) 

That  subway  affair  was  ghastly,  useful  as  it 
did  prove  to  me.  "We  thought  surely  our  hour  had 
struck,  but  we  behaved  with  Early  Christian  Mar 
tyr  fortitude  and  much  more  sprightly  cheer,  and 
when  Michael  Daragh  thought  the  end  had  come 
he  staged  a  love  scene  which  made  all  the  love 
scenes  I  ever  wrote  and  all  the  love  scenes  I  ever 
read  sound  like  time-tables  or  statistics !  Months 
of  misunderstanding  were  explained  away  in  min 
utes;  he  honestly  believed  me  to  be  secretly  en 
gaged  to  Eodney  Harrison  (there  I  see  the  fine 
Italian  hand  of  Emma  Ellis,  poor  thing,  oh,  poor 
thing — to  want  Michael  Daragh  and  not  to  have 
him!)  and  he  still  more  honestly  believed  that  I 
lived  and  moved  and  had  my  brilliant  being  in  a 

272  * 


JANE   JOUKNEYS   ON 


world  too  far  removed  from  his  shabby  and  cum 
bered  one,  and  that  he  was  only  my  more  or  less 
valued  but  humble  friend — oh,  miles  of  that  sort 
of  piffle !  Well,  when  we  were  safe  in  the  upper 
air  again,  he  basely  tried  to  repudiate  me, — hand 
some  speeches  about  not  shadowing  my  bright  life 
and  all  that — very  fetching  as  literature  but  not 
at  all  satisfying  to  a  young  woman  who  had  just 
achieved  a  betrothal  after  long  and  earnest  en 
deavor!  I  foiled  him!  You  can't  think  how 
brazen  I  was.  I  was  still  a  bit  hazy  with  smoke 
and  exhaustion,  and  I  honestly  believe  if  he  hadn't 
given  in  I'd  have  screamed  for  a  policeman! 

But  once  he  gave  up  the  fruitless  struggle,  he 
began  to  have  a  very  good  time  indeed.  I  will 
even  go  so  far  as  to  state  that  he  hugs  his  chains. 

Yours  in  "a  fine,  dizzy,  muddle-headed  joy," 

JANE. 

New  York. 
April  Eighteenth. 
SALLY  MACHREE, 

(See  how  Irish  she  is  already!)  The  first  towel 
has  come  and  makes  me  feel  such  a  housekeeper ! 
You're  a  lamb,  but  you'll  finish  life  with  a  tin  cup 
and  a  "Pity  the  Blind"  sign  if  you  go  on  making 
"stitches  as  fine  as  a  fairy's  first  tooth." 

We  are  to  be  married  (see  how  calmly  and  stead 
ily  she  sets  down  that  astounding  word?)  in  June, 
and  domesticity  has  descended  upon  me.  I  read 
only  women's  magazines,  household  departments 

273 


JANE  JOURNEYS   ON 


only,  I  read  recipes  and  memorize  them,  I  haunt 
linen  shops  and  furniture  stores.  But,  oh,  I  need 
a:  mother  and  a  sister  or  two,  and  you'll  simply 
have  to  come  down  to  me  for  a  month.  Can't  you? 
Of  course  you  can.  Your  mother  will  feed  the 
piano.  I  must  have  you. 

IVe  found  a  house  in  West  Ninth  Street,  near 
the  blessed  old  Square,  close  enough  to  the  Bre- 
voort  when  the  kitchen  is  bolsheviking.  It  is  de- 
liciously  old  with  high  ceilings  and  haughty  chan 
deliers  and  austere  marble  mantels,  and  all  sorts 
of  inconveniences  which  I  picturesquely  adore,  but 
which  will  leave  the  noble  army  of  labor  quite  cold. 
I  shall  make  the  drawing-room  very  English,  part 
of  my  precious  rosewood  and  mahogany  sent  down 
from  Valley  View  (though  I  shall  keep  that  house 
largely  as  it  is)  and  cunning  Kensington  curtains 
and  little  pots  of  ivy,  and  "set-pieces"  of  bead 
work,  and  that  dear,  dim  portrait  of  great-grand 
mother  Vail  in  cap  and  ringlets.  The  dining  room 
will  be  sober,  too,  but  there's  a  nook  just  off  it 
which  I  shall  use  for  a  breakfast  room,  looking  out 
into  the  prim,  Prunella  scrap  of  garden,  and  that 
I  will  make  giddy-gay  with  chintz  and  Minton. 
There'll  be  a  remote  workroom  for  me,  far  up 
stairs,  and  a  friendly  brown  study  where  Michael 
Daragh's  lame  dogs  may  come  to  be  helped  over 
their  stiles. 

Sarah,  I'm  as  domestic  as  a  setting  hen!  I 
foresee  I  shall  be  a  living  version  of  Mr.  Solo 
mon  's  lady  of  the  Proverb — working  willingly  with 

274 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


my  hands,  rising  while  it  is  yet  night.  (M.  D. 
keeps  fearfully  early  hours)  —  My  candle  going 
not  out  by  night  (candles  will  be  perfect  in  that 
house!).  My  husband  shall,  indeed,  he  known  in 
the  gates  j  but  he  won't  sitteth  there,  for  home  will 
be  far  too  attractive.  Nine  to  one,  as  always,  I'll 
ply  my  trade,  but  before  and  after  office  hours  I'll 
be  looketh-ing  well  to  the  ways  of  my  household 
and  eateth-ing  not  the  bread  of  idleness  (except 
at  tea!).  Many  daughters  have  done  virtuously 
but  I  shall  excel  them  all.  I  admit  it. 


P.S.  Michael  Daragh  is  beamish  with  bliss. 
He  's  done  himself  out  in  purple  and  fine  linen  and 
yet  manages,  miraculously,  not  to  look  in  the  least 
like  other  men,  and  he  doesn't  even  stoop  any 
more.  Sally,  you  know  when  he  was  in  Ireland 
we  all  —  especially  Emma  Ellis  and  the  romantic 
music  students  —  conjectured  as  to  what  he  was 
when  he  was  at  home,  and  cast  him  for  many  fetch 
ing  roles,  from  a  sacrificial  younger  son  to  a  Sin- 
eater,  and  always  a  belted  earl  at  the  very  least. 
He  has  told  me  all  about  himself  now,  naturally, 
and  it  would  be  a  blow  to  Emma  E.  and  the  little 
music  makers,  so  I  mercifully  mean  never  to  let 
them  know.  He  hasn't  any  immediate  family,  and 
was  brought  up  by  an  uncle  who  had  a  large  and 
prosperous  wholesale  grocery  business  in  Cork! 
(Could  anything  be  less  lyrical,  I  ask  you?)  He 
wanted  M.  D.  to  go  into  the  business  after  he  had 
finished  college,  and  M.  D.,  quite  naturally,  being 

275 


JANE   JOUBNEYS   ON 


M.  D.,  wouldn't  and  they  quarreled,  and  M.  D. 
came  over  here  with  just  his  small  income  from 
his  father's  small  estate,  and  went  into  settle 
ment  work.  He  was  called  home  to  the  uncle's 
death-bed,  but  the  uncle,  contrary  to  the  best  liter 
ary  precedents,  hadn't  softened  to  any  extent 
worth  mentioning,  and  died  as  crabbed  as  he  had 
lived,  greatly  annoyed,  no  doubt,  to  realize  that 
his  demise  released  certain  decent  little  incomes 
from  the  main  family  estate  to  the  stubborn 
nephew,  but  immensely  pleased  with  himself  for 
making  his  fortune  over  to  outsiders.  So,  my 
other-worldly  spouse  will  have  a  comfortable  in 
come  after  all,  but  he  may  divide  it  with  dope- 
fiends  and  Fallen  Sisters  and  their  ilk  to  his 
heart's  content  since  my  royalties,  like  snowballs, 
gather  as  they  roll! 

Sally,  you  must  come  down  and  stay  with  me^ 
"Please,  pretty  please!" 

JANE. 

New  York  City, 

May  Twentieth* 
DEAREST  SALLY, 

I'm  distressed  beyond  words  that  your  mother 
is  still  so  wretched,  and  I  see,  of  course,  that  you 
cannot  leave  her  yet.  But  she  must  hurry  and  be 
well  enough  to  let  you  come  for  the  wedding, — 
middle  or  end  of  June. 

A  rather  startling  thing  has  happened.  I  have 
a  letter  from  Profesor  Morales  in  Guadalajara, 

276 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


saying  that — after  all  the  tangling  up  of  the  red 
tape  in  the  various  revolutionary  merry-go-rounds 
— things  are  in  order  at  last,  and  little  Dolores 
Tristeza  starts  me-ward  as  soon  as  a  suitable  trav 
eling  companion  can  be  found.  I  must  admit  I'm 
a  little  aghast.  Six  months  ago,  I  yearned  to 
have  her  as  a  prop  for  my  spinsterhood,  but  that 
Dark  Age  is  about  to  be  folded  by.  Of  course  I 
must  stand  by  what  I've  said,  and  I  want  to,  but 
IVe  answered  Senor  Morales,  explaining  my  ap 
proaching  marriage  and  that  I  would  send  for 
Dolores  in  the  early  fall  (perhaps  Michael  Daragh 
and  I  can  go  and  get  her!)  and  inclosing  a  fat 
check  for  her  maintenance  in  the  meantime. 

But  isn't  it  rather  a  comedy  situation?  A  big 
little  daughter  suddenly  bestowed  upon  a  busy 
bride-elect!  But  she  is  an  angel,  and  I'll  adore 
having  her,  just  as  soon  as  I  get  used  to  the  idea 
again. 

Love  and  warmest  wishes  to  your  mother,  and 
I'm  sending  her  some  books. 
Devotedly, 

JANE. 

New  York  City, 
May  Twenty-seventh. 
OLD  DEAR, 

So  glad  your  mother  is  even  a  wee  bit  better! 
House  and  clothes  are  coming  on  famously  but 
I'm  rather  rebellious  at  not  having  more  of  M.  D.  's 
time.  My  life  work  will  be  to  drag  him  down  from 

277 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


his  pinnacle  of  selflessness!  His  chief  concern 
just  now  is  for  his  brilliant  yonng  dope  fiend,  and 
I  really  shouldn't  begrudge  M.  D.  to  him,  for  if 
we  hadn't  had  supper  with  him  that  night,  and 
gone  uptown  in  the  subway,  who  knows  if  I'd  ever 
have  won  my  elusive  swain?  Eandal  is  doing 
fairly  well,  as  regards  the  drug,  and  making  some 
corking  sketches  for  our  joint  calendar,  but  he 
needs  a  world  of  cheering  and  chumminess  and 
countenance. 

But  one  would  like  a  little  less  of  him,  a  little 
more  of  one's  lover. 

Eather  crossly, 

J. 

Friday  Morning. 

Sally,  dear,  another  letter  has  come  from  Mex 
ico,  and  Dolores  Tristeza  is  on  her  way !  A  highly 
proper  geologist  was  returning  to  New  York,  and 
they  dared  not  miss  so  excellent  an  opportunity 
of  sending  her. 

And  she'll  be  here  day  after  to-morrow!  I  find 
myself  rather  gasping!  I  must  telephone  the 
steamship  office,  and  I'll  close  this  later. 

Next  Evening. 

She  will  arrive  on  the  Pearl  of  Peru  at  about 
three  P.M.  to-morrow,  and  M.  D.  is  going  with  me 
to  meet  her.  He  is  dear  about  it  all,  and  so  am  I, 
now  that  I've  got  my  breath!  I'm  remembering 
what  a  dewy-eyed  little  dove  of  a  thing  she  is.  A 

278 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


few  days  of  happy  holiday  for  her,  and  then  the 
mildest  and  gayest  school  I  can  find,  one  where 
they  have  no  stuffy  rules  about  not  letting  the 
pupils  come  home  for  week-ends. 

The  Profesor  explained  that  the  Hospicio  had 
fallen  on  evil  days  during  the  revolution  and  the 
children  are  now  cared  for  in  private  families. 
The  three  different  households  which  had  been 
sheltering  Dolores  had  been  obliged  from  various 
circumstances  to  give  her  up,  and  Senor  Morales 
regretted  the  limitations  of  his  own  establish 
ment. 

Poor,  pitiful  little  creature  .  .  .  little  "  Sorrows 
and  Sadness ! "  I  must  pledge  myself  to  make  her 
over  into  Joys  and  Gladness — Alegrias  y  Felici- 
dad,  if  I  remember  my  Spanish  at  all. 

I'm  ashamed  of  those  mean  moments  at  first 
when  I  didn't  want  her! 

Penitently, 

JANE. 

P.S.  I  mean  to  have  her  call  me  Aunt  Jane, 
which  will  be  "Tia  Juana."  Isn't  that  charm 
ing?  I  really  don't  care  to  be  called  "Mother" 
just  now  by  a  twelve-year-old  daughter.  It's — a 
bit  un-bridal. 

Sunday  Night. 
MY  DEAR  SAKAH, 

I  wasn't  up  to  writing  you  yesterday — Fm  not 
really  able  to,  now,  but  I'll  try  to  tap  you  out  a  few 
feeble  lines.  .  .  . 

279 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


Oh,  yes,  she  came.  She's  here !  As  some  of  my 
vaude-villains  would  say — I'll  say  she  is! 

M.  D.  and  I  met  the  steamer,  the  Pearl  of  Peru* 
Gentle,  innocent-sounding  name,  isn't  it!  Sounds 
as  if  it  might  fitly  convoy  the  dewy-eyed  dore  of 
my  dreams.  ...  It  took  a  long  time  to  dock  and 
all  the  passengers  were  at  the  rail.  I  looked  in 
vain  for  my  daughter-to-be,  but  I  was  particularly 
struck  by  a  sad,  broken-looking,  elderly  man  whose 
eager  eyes  raked  the  wharf.  He  turned  to  ask  a 
question  of  a  large  girl  beside  him,  a  creature 
clad  in  strident  hues,  furrily  powdered,  bearing  a 
caged  parrot  in  one  hand,  a  shivering,  hairless, 
Mexican  dog  under  her  arm,  a  cigarette  in  her 
mouth.  Her  gaze  became  riveted  upon  me.  She 
emitted  a  piercing  shriek  of  joy. 

"Madre  virgen  de  mi  alma!" 

Then,  in  order  that  all  persons  present  on  ship 
board  and  on  the  wharf  might  have  the  benefit  of 
her  remark,  she  translated  it — "Virgin  Mother  of 
my  soul!" — and  every  one  at  once  laid  by  all  other 
preoccupations  and  gave  himself  whole-heartedly 
to  looking  and  listening. 

I  have  never  seen  a  more  radiant  expression  of 
joy  and  release  than  that  which  overspread  the 
countenance  of  the  geologist  at  sight  of  me,  and 
even  at  that  instant  I  began  to  understand  his 
emotion.  It  seemed  an  hour  before  the  gangplank 
was  put  down.  Dolores  Tristeza  held  the  parrot 
up  so  that  she  might  see  me.  "Behold  the  virgin 
mother  of  my  soul!" 

280 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


"Shut  your  ugly  mouth!"  shrieked  the  sweet 
bird,  happily  in  Spanish. 

"See,  little  mother  mine,"  called  Dolores,  shak 
ing  the  cage,  "Santa  Catalina,  the  parrot  of  a 
thousand  pretty  talents !  And  here ' ' — she  held  up 
the  hairless,  squirming  canine — "behold  little 
Jose-Maria,  joy  of  my  orphan  heart!" 

I  got  as  close  to  her  as  possible  and  besought  her 
to  moderate  her  transports  until  she  had  landed, 
and  I  was  amazed  and  aghast  and  horrified  at  the 
size  of  her.  "But,  how  you've  grown,  Dolores!" 
I  stammered. 

She  chuckled  gleefully.  "They  lied  to  thee  at 
the  Hospicio,  Madrecita.  I  was  not  twelve  years 
but  past  fourteen!  They  desired,  naturally,  to 
keep  me  with  them  in  the  juvenile  department. 
Thus  am  I  loved  wherever  I  go!  Dost  thou  not 
burn  to  fold  me  to  thy  breast?" 

What  I  burned  to  do  at  that  instant  was  to  turn 
the  Pearl  of  Peru  about  and  send  her  speeding 
swiftly  back  across  the  foam. 

"So,  now  I  am  more  than  fourteen  years  and  a 
half,  large  of  my  age,  beautiful  as  all  may  see,  of 
a  wisdom  to  astonish  you.  In  one  year  more,  thou 
shalt  find  me  a  husband.  Many  novios  have  I  had 
already!  Four  serenades  were  made  to  me  the 
night  before  I  left  Guadalajara,  and  on  the 
boat — "  She  turned  to  the  elderly  gentleman  with 
a  complacent  and  pitying  smile.  ' '  But ' ' — she  took 
account  for  the  first  time  of  Michael  Daragh — 

281 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


"quien  es  el  liombron?"    (Who  is  the  big  man?) 
"Tu  novio?" 

I  admitted  that  he  was  my  betrothed. 

"No  es  tu  esposo?"  she  quivered  with  tentative 
rage. 

I  assured  her  that  he  was  not  yet  my  husband. 

"Very  well,  then,"  she  said  in  English,  "we 
shall  see.  Only,  I  warn  thee,  if  when  thy  children 
come,  thon  lovest  them  more  than  me,  I  will  burn 
out  their  eyes  with  red-hot  curling  irons!"  (Her 
English  is  heavily  accented  but  perfectly — hor 
ribly — understandable. ) 

A  merciful  Providence  let  down  the  gangplank 
and  she  flung  herself,  her  shrieking,  cursing  par 
rot,  her  shivering  dog,  into  my  arms.  Santa  Cata- 
lina's  seed  and  water  cups  were  emptied  on  my 
frock ;  Jose-Maria  set  his  little  dagger  teeth  in  my 
sleeve ;  a  fierce  scent  assailed  my  nostrils ;  a  shower 
of  powder  frosted  my  shoulder. 

I  freed  myself  to  speak  to  the  geologist  who 
seemed  eager  to  be  on  his  way.  "I  am  very  grate 
ful  to  you,"  I  said,  mendaciously.  "I  hope  it  has 
not  been  too  much  trouble. ' ' 

"I  got  her  here,  didn't  II "  he  said  with  an  air 
of  weary  pride.  He  looked  so  haggard  that  my 
heart  smote  me.  "Senor  Morales  should  not  have 
burdened  you.  You  look  ill  and " 

"I  was  a  well,  strong  man  when  I  left  Vera 
Cruz,"  he  said  darkly.  "I  wish  you  luck,  Miss 
Vail."  He  took  one  step  and  halted.  "Do  you 
believe  in  corporal  punishment?" 

282 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


" Mercy,  no !  It's  a  relic  of  barbarism.  No  one 
does,  now!" 

* '  Yon  will, ' '  he  said,  earnestly,  *  'yon  will !  Cor 
poral  punishment  1 — My  God, — capital!9' 

" Farewell,  old  camel,"  Dolores  called,  kindly, 
after  his  retreating  figure.  ' '  Go  with  God ! ' ' 

* '  Michael  Daragh, ' '  I  whispered,  when  we  at  last 
were  packed  into  the  taxi,  " couldn't  we  stop  at 
some  school  on  the  way  home  and  leave  her?" 

"Not  in  those  clothes,  woman  dear, — not  with 
those  animals." 

"Cuidado,  Hombron!"  said  my  dewy-eyed  dove. 
"If  yon  seek  to  turn  from  me  the  heart  of  my  vir 
gin  mother  (she  pronounces  it  veergeen  mawther), 
I  will  not  let  her  marry  with  you,  and  you  will  be 
old  sour  face  seller o,  and  she  will  dress  the  saints ! 
But,"  she  went  on  indulgently,  "if  you  are  good 
to  me,  I  am  good  to  you !  See, — I  kiss  up  to  God ! ' y 
— and  she  wafted  a  heavily  scented  kiss  toward 
the  ceiling  of  the  taxicab. 

Desperately, 

JANE. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Wednesday. 

WELL,  Sally,  mia,  life  looks  a  bit  more  rosy! 
I've  separated  Dolores  from  her  cigarette,  from 
her  furry  coat  of  powder,  from  her  athletic  per 
fume,  from  her  circus  clothes,  and  to-day,  in  spite 
of  her  incredible  size  (the  inches  and  pounds  she 
has  acquired  in  six  months !)  the  years  have  fallen 
from  her.  In  a  slim,  brown  tricotine  with  a  wide, 
untrimmed  hat  of  silky  brown  straw  her  loveliness 
has  come  back,  and  with  it  my  enthusiasm. 

She  is  docile  in  the  main,  when  not  too  violently 
opposed,  and  I  feed  my  fancy  on  the  joy  and  pride 
I  shall  have  in  her,  when  she  has  finished  school, 
in  five  years. 

She  starts  on  Monday,  a  splendid,  firm,  well- 
disciplined  school  where  they  have  sensible  rules 
about  not  letting  the  pupils  come  home  for  week 
ends.  The  head-mistress  was  charmed  with  Do 
lores  and  Dolores  has  "kissed  up  to  God"  her 
resolve  to  be  good. 

I'm  honestly  ashamed  of  my  panic  over  first  im 
pressions.  She's  really  an  angel. 

JANE. 
284 


JANE   JOUBNEYS    ON 


Thursday. 
She's  really  a  demon. 

J. 

New  York  City, 

June  29th. 
DEAREST  SALLY, 

It's  weeks  since  IVe  written  yon,  bnt  I'm  a 
broken  woman,  old  before  my  time.  I  may  not 
look  qnite  so  forlorn  as  the  geologist  did,  but  I 
feel  it. 

Did  I  write  something  abont  the  rosy  but  dim 
and  distant  date  when  Dolores  would  be  "through 
school?"  Well,  it's  come.  She's  through  school. 
And  school,  I  might  mention  in  passing,  is  through 
with  her, — five  of  them,  from  Miss  Trenchard's 
Spartan  smartness  to  the  gentle  Spanish  convent. 
She's  a  demon-baby.  She's  a  cross  between  Car 
men  and  Mary  Maclane. 

Of  course  the  wedding  has  had  to  be  postponed. 
Michael  Daragh  is  angelic  about  it,  and  he  hasn't 
been  able  to  help  me  with  Dolores  as  much  as  he 
would  like  because  he 's  been  engulfed  with  a  new 
settlement  house,  and  his  dope  fiend  has  been  wob 
bling  again,  but  our  calendar  is  finished  and  ac 
cepted  now,  and  a  really  nice  girl  is  being  really 
nice  to  him — liking  him,  trusting  him,  and  M.  D. 
is  at  peace  about  him. 

Dolores  came  definitely  home  from  the  convent 
to-day  with  a  clever  note  from  the  Mother  Su 
perior  .  .  .  they  feel  that  the  child  needs  more 
space  .  .  .  freedom.  .  .  . 

285 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


Good  heavens,  so  do  I!  Ay  de  mi,  that  I  ever 
saw  Mexico !  And  yet,  the  demon-baby  loves  me, 
and  I  love  her,  but  I  also  love  Michael  Daragh  and 
would  like  exceedingly  to  marry  him.  My  house 
is  ready,  my  clothes  are  finished,  and  so — nearly — 
am  I. 

But  I  cannot  go  off  on  a  honeymoon  unless  I 
leave  her  in  safety.  Sarah,  now  that  your  mother 
is  so  improved,  wouldn't  you  like  to  take  a 
boarder  I  You  could  chain  her  to  the  baby- 
grand,  .  .  . 

Distractedly, 
THE  VIRGIN  MOTHEB  OF  HER  SOUL. 

P.S.  A  friend,  knowing  of  my  plight,  has  just 
telephoned  about  a  very  fine  New  Thought  school 
which  will  be  glad  to  receive  my  ward.  Well, 
they'll  have  some  entirely  new  thoughts  in  that 
school  which  they've  never  had  before ! 

J. 

July  Sixth. 
SALLY  DARLING, 

I  jibber  with  joy!  The  best  and  most  beautiful 
of  all  my  leading  men  was  sent  by  a  kind  Provi 
dence  to  take  tea  with  me  to-day  and  talk  over  the 
new  play  idea,  and  while  he  was  here  Dolores 
Tristeza  arrived  in  state  and  a  taxi  from  the  N.  T. 
school,  along  with  her  trunk  and  her  temper  and 
her  temperament  and  Santa  Catalina  and  Jose- 
Maria.  Utterly  ignoring  him,  she  launched  upon 
a  monologue  of  her  fancied  wrongs,  dramatizing 

286 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


every  incident,  impersonating  every  one  from  the 
Principal  to  the  taxi  driver.  I'd  seen  her  through 
so  many  of  these  Mad  Scenes  that  it  left  me  quite 
cold,  but  not  so  my  actor-man.  When  she  had 
finished,  spitting  (dryly  but  venomously)  upon 
all  schools,  and  flung  herself  out  of  the  room,  he 
sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Good  gad,  Jane  Vail, — don't  you  know  what 
you've  got  here?  A  young  Nazimova !  An  infant 
Kalich!  Schools — nonsense!  Teach  her  the 
A.B.C.'s — but  don't  touch  that  accent — and  turn 
her  loose  on  the  stage ! ' ' 

Sarah,  he's  right.  It's  the  thing,  the  only  thing, 
to  do  with  her.  I  took  her  to  see  Nazimova  to 
night,  and  she  sat  star-eyed  and  hardly  breathing. 
When  we  came  home  I  told  her  my  new  ideal  for 
her  and  she  wept  with  joy.  She  swears  by  the 
green  tail  of  Santa  Catalina  and  kisses  up  to  God 
that  she  will  never  be  wicked  again,  and  she  be 
lieves  it,  and  so  do  I,  for  I've  touched  her  imagina 
tion  at  last.  I've  been  trying  to  keep  a  Bird  of 
Paradise  in  a  chicken  coop!  I'll  put  her  with  the 
right  people  for  training,  and  have  her  with  me  a 
great  deal,  and  not  try  to  muss  up  her  poor  little 
mind  with  mathematics. 

She  is  lying  sleepless  and  bright-eyed  in  her  bed, 
and  I  must  go  in  to  her  now,  to  soothe  her  off  to 
the  Poppy  Fields  with  happy  plans  and  prophe 
sies. 

When  are  you  coming? 

JANE. 
287 


JANE   JOUBNEYS    ON 


July  Eighth. 
MY  DEAB, 

I  float  on  a  sea  of  rosy  bliss.  Bandal's  girl  has 
almost  promised  to  marry  him,  and  he's  a  new 
man,  and  Dolores  is  a  lamb,  dreaming  of  the  time 
she  may  begin  her  study  for  the  stage,  in  the  early 
fall. 

We  are  to  be  married  on  the  afternoon  of  the 
twenty-fourth,  and  take  the  night  boat  for  Boston 
and  thence  to  Maine,  to  Three  Meadows.  It  was 
M.  D.  who  sent  me  there  by  scolding  me  into  reali 
zation  of  my  grubbiness,  four  years  ago ;  I  want  to 
have  my  honeymoon  there.  The  Deacon  and  "An- 
gerleek"  have  a  little  house  which  they  rent,  and 
they  are  making  it  ready  for  us. 

I'm  afraid  every  one  at  home  will  think  me 
quite  mad  to  be  married  here  instead  of  in  my  dear 
old  house,  but  Sally,  after  all,  my  wedding  belongs 
to  this  world,  not  to  that.  I  shall  be  married  here 
at  Mrs.  Hills'  in  her  big  old  double  parlors,  the 
ugliness  conquered  with  flowers,  and  I  shall  wear 
my  traveling  things — as  the  village  paper  would 
say — "the  bride,  attired  in  a  modish  going-away 
gown" — I  know  you'll  wail  for  all  the  trimmings, 
Sally  dear, — the  veil  and  the  train  and  all  the  rest, 
but  that  sort  of  thing  belongs  to  eighteen,  not 
twenty-eight.  I'm  beyond  the  age  of  opera  bouffe 
weddings, — I  don't  vision  myself  coming  down  a 
white-ribboned  aisle  with  wobbly  knees,  covered 
with  orange  blossoms  and  gooseflesh!  But — oh, 
Sally,  the  truth  is  that  I  would  be  married  in  a 

288 


JANE   JOURNEYS    ON 


mackintosh  or  a  bathing  suit,  I'm  so  dizzily,  daz 
edly  happy! 

Dolores  Tristeza,  good  as  an  angel  out  of  a 
frieze,  agrees  to  stay  docilely  with  Emma  Ellis  at 
Hope  House  while  we  are  away.  She  calls  her 
"Ella  de  la  barba"  with  reference  to  the  small 
but  determined  little  fringe  on  poor  E.  E.'s  chin 
and  I  tremble — no,  I  don 't !  I  'm  not  afraid  of  any 
thing  now.  Everything  is  and  will  be  perfect. 

If  only  you  can  come,  best  of  friends ! 
Happily, 

JANE, 


The  Day! 
MY  DEAKEST  SALLY, 

"I  must  be  making  haste, 
I  have  no  time  to  waste — 
This  is — this  is  my  wedding  morning!" 

But  my  haste  is  done.  I  am  radiantly  ready 
now,  and  there  are  seven  still  and  shining  hours 
ahead. 

My  trunk  is  packed  with  jolly  Island  clothes ;  my 
bag  stands  ready  to  close ;  my  sitting  room  is  run 
ning  over  with  gifts,  little  and  large,  proud  and 
pitiful, — from  Marty  "Wetherby's  opulent  clock 
and  Eodney  Harrison's  gorgeous  silver  service  to 
"AngerleekV  preserves  and  the  hand-painted 
mustard  pot  from  Ethel  and  Jerry  and  Billiken, 
and  a  virtuously  ugly  dusting  cap  from  Mrs.  Mus- 

289 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


sel.  If  only  you  were  here,  Sally  dearest!  But 
I  know  your  mother  needs  you,  and  it  must  be  a 
blessed  thing  to  have  a  mother  to  need  you ! 

Sally,  I'm  feeling  very  proud  and  very  humble, 
very 

Later. 

Just  as  I  wrote  that,  Michael  Daragh  came, 
white,  tight-lipped,  more  than  ever  like  the  Bot 
ticelli  St.  Michael;  he  was  the  "Captain-General 
of  the  Hosts  of  Heaven."  All  he  needed  was  a 
sword. 

"Woman,  dear,"  he  said,  "I've  the  sad,  terrible 
news  will  be  breaking  your  heart." 

"Have  you  decided  not  to  marry  me?"  I  asked, 
facetiously,  but  I  didn't  feel  in  the  least  humorous. 

* '  'Tis  my  lad, ' '  he  said, '  <  Randal.  She 's  thrown 
him  over,  that  girl.  Destroyed  he  is  with  grief 
and  shame,  bound  again  for  the  black  pit." 

I  tried  to  comfort  him.  I  said  I  was  sure  the 
boy  was  too  firmly  on  his  feet  to  slip  now,  but 
he  knew  better,  or  worse,  and  he  said  he  dared  not 
leave  him  for  an  hour,  and  then,  Sarah,  I  began 
to  see  what  it  meant,  and  it  turned  me  to  iron  and 
ice. 

"You  mean,"  I  said,  "you  want  to  postpone 
our  marriage?" 

"Never  that,  Acushla,  but — couldn't  we  be  tak 
ing  him  with  us?  'Tis  the  wild  thing  to  be  ask 
ing  you,  but  after  all,  woman  dear,  we  've  the  whole 
of  our  lives  ahead,  and  for  him  it  means  all  the 
world !  Say  we  '11  be  taking  him ! ' ' 

290 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Now,  Sarah  Farraday,  I  ask  you,  as  a  reason 
able  human  being,  what  you  think  of  that?  To 
take  a  dope  fiend  with  us  on  our  honeymoon! 

I  seemed  to  see  the  future  in  one  blinding  flash 
— always  our  own  rights,  our  own  happiness,  re 
lentlessly  pushed  aside.  I'm  glad  I  can't  remem 
ber  all  I  said,  but  I  shall  remember  the  look  on 
his  face  as  long  as  I  live.  But  I  was  right — I  was 
right.  He  belongs  in  a  painted  picture,  St. 
Michael,  not  in  a  warm,  vital,  human  world. 

So,  it  isn't  my  wedding  morning  after  all. 

J. 

Three  P.M. 

I'm  putting  a  special  delivery  stamp  on  this, 
Sally  dear,  so  you'll  get  it  before  the  other  one. 

I  relented  in  sackcloth  and  ashes  and  shame,  of 
course,  and  telephoned  to  tell  him  so,  but  I  couldn't 
get  him  because  he  was  on  his  way  here  to  tell  me 
he  would  yield,  that  he  wouldn't  ask  me  to  take 
Eandal  with  us.  Then  we  had  another  moving 
scene,  reversed  this  time,  I  pleading  penitently  to 
take  him.  M.  D.  said  he  had  had  a  good  talk  with 
the  poor  lad,  and  he  had  sworn  to  brace  up  alone. 
I  shall  always  be  glad  I  yielded,  but  I  know  now 
just  how  Abraham  felt  when  he  found  the  ram 
caught  in  the  bushes!  And  I'll  always  be  glad 
that  for  once  M.  D.  chose  happiness  for  himself. 
Very  shakily,  but  gratefully, 

JANE. 
291 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Midnight, 

On  the  Boston  Boat. 

My  dear,  do  you  remember  a  silly  song  of  our 
childhood  with  a  refrain  like  this — 

"I'm  not  blessed  with  surplus  wealth, 
Bump    tiddy    ump    bump,    bump    tiddy    ump 

bump, — 

Off  on  a  honeymoon  all  by  myself, 
Bump  tiddy  ump  bump  bay!" 

Well,  my  dear  Sarah,  that  is  exactly  the  sort  of 
wedding  journey  which  has  fallen  to  me. 

We  were  married.  Yes,  I'm  very  clear  about 
that.  Dolores,  my  dewy-eyed  dove,  stood  with  me, 
and  Eandal,  ghastly  and  trembling,  by  Michael 
Daragh.  The  solemn  old  minister  knotted  us  se 
curely.  Michael  kissed  me.  (I'm  very  clear  about 
that,  too.) 

Suddenly,  like  a  cyclone,  like  a  typhoon,  Dolores 
Tristeza  cast  herself  upon  me.  "Virgin  mawther 
of  my  soul,"  she  howled,  "do  not  leave  me!  I 
keel  myself!  Ella  de  la  barba  ees  nawthing  to 
me!  Do  not  leave  me  to  die  with  these  so  ugly 
strangers!  No  tengo  mas  amiga  que  tu!"  (Thou 
art  my  only  friend!) 

She  was  working  up  into  a  frenzy  which  made 
all  her  earlier  efforts  sound  like  lullabies  with  the 
soft  pedal  on,  and  she  was  shaking  herself  into 
convulsions  and  crying  real  tears.  ' '  Behold, ' '  she 
sobbed,  "las  Idgrimas  de  la  huerfanita!"  (The 
tears  of  the  little  orphan!) 

292 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


I  counted  ten.  Then  I  turned  to  my  new  hus 
band. 

"Michael  Daragh,"  I  said,  meekly,  "will  you 
take  Randal  with  you  and  let  me  take  Dolores 
with  me?" 

I  wish  you  could  have  seen  people's  faces  as  we 
went  off  in  a  groaning  taxi,  ourselves,  our  lug 
gage,  Randal,  white  and  protesting,  Dolores,  tear 
ful  but  triumphant,  Jose-Maria,  snapping  and 
snarling,  Santa  Catalina,  strongly  urging  every 
one  to  shut  his  ugly  mouth  for  the  love  of  all  the 
saints. 

Sally,  you've  read  a  hundred  stories,  haven't 
you,  which  went  like  this — the  ceremony,  the  good 
wishes,  the  rice,  the  old  shoes,  then — "he  jerked 
down  the  curtain  of  the  cab  window," — "Alone  at 
last,"  he  murmured,  "my  wife!"  "He  folded  her 
in  his  arms." 

I  think  Michael  Daragh 's  feeling  was  that  we 
were  not  entirely  alone,  and  that  it  was  a  rather 
large  order  to  fold  in  his  arms  a  swearing  parrot, 
a  shivering,  hairless  dog,  a  robust  Mexican 
orphan,  a  bride  and  a  dope  fiend,  for  he  made  not 
the  first  gesture  of  the  above  ritual. 

It  is  after  midnight.  Dolores  is  asleep  here  in 
my  stateroom,  a  smile  of  seraphic  peace  on  her 
face,  but  in  the  room  next  door  I  hear  the  steady 
murmur  of  M.  D.'s  voice  reading  to  poor  Randal, 
who  cannot  sleep,  who  has  tried  to  jump  over 
board.  Michael  dares  not  leave  him  for  an  in 
stant,  even  to  tell  me  good-night. 

293 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


Sally,  it  is  really  funny,  but  I  have  to  keep  as 
suring  and  reminding  myself  that  it  is. 

JANE. 

Morning, 

TAt  Three  Meadows. 
SALLY,  MY  DEAB, 

Once  again  I  crept  up  a  river  of  mother-of- 
pearl  in  the  gauzy  dawn  to  this  island  sanctuary. 
The  Deacon  met  us,  amazed  at  our  number,  and 
led  us  to  the  silver  gray  house  just  beyond  theirs 
on  a  little,  lifting  hill,  where  "  Angerleek"  will  "do 
for  us." 

Morning  brought  counsel.  "While  my  husband 
(carelessly  said — just  like  that!)  while  my  hus 
band  looked  after  luggage  I  talked  to  Kandal, 
sane  again,  haggard,  abased.  "My  dear  boy,"  I 
said,  "you  aren't  going  to  be  in  the  way  at  all! 
You'll  look  after  yourself  and  be  company  for 
Michael  when  he  wants  good  man-talk.  It's  this 
demon-child.  If — do  you  suppose  you  could  look 
after  her  for  me!" 

He  wrung  my  hand.  ' '  Count  on  me !  If  there 's 
anything  I  can  do,  to  atone,  to  square  myself — I'll 
be  her  nurse,  her  governess,  her  jailer!" 

Then  to  a  meek  huerfanita,  feeding  her  menag 
erie,  I  made  oration.  "Daughter  of  my  soul,  thou 
knowest  thy  presence  is  a  joy  of  purest  ray 
serene,  but  this  Eandal  creature,  tagging  ever  at 
the  heels  of  my  spouse " 

"Star  of  my  heart,"  she   said,  grinding  her 

294 


JANE   JOURNEYS   ON 


teeth,  "he  is  a  pig  and  the  son  of  a  pig!  Have  no 
fear,  Madrecita,  I  will  herd  him,  like  cattle,  away 
from  thy  sight."  She  kissed  up  to  God. 

JANE,, 

The  Silver  Gray  House, 
On  the  Lifting  Hill, 

Three  Meadows. 

I  have  ceased  to  reckon  time  by  calendars,  Sally 
dearest,  but  I  think  we  have  been  here,  Michael 
Daragh  and  I,  seven  or  ten  days. 

Oh,  yes,  the  others  are  still  here, — at  least,  they 
are  on  the  island,  but  we  never  see  them.  They 
come  and  go  like  Brownies,  like  elves,  like  the 
"Little  People"  of  Michael's  land,  bringing  our 
meals  and  our  mail,  vanishing  silently.  .  a  .  They 
stand  between  us  and  the  village  and  the  Deacon 
and  the  world.  They  are  our  shields  and  barriers ; 
our  sure  defense;  our  shock  absorbers.  I 
shouldn't  think  of  ever  going  on  a  honeymoon 
without  them.  We  have  signed  them  up  for  all  our 
anniversary  excursions,  and  between  whiles  we'll 
loan  them  to  friends  for  wedding  trips  and  rent 
them  to  a  select  public, — there'll  be  miles  of  Wait 
ing  List  as  soon  as  they  are  known! 
Make  your  reservations  early! 
Whole  islands  and  oceans  of  love,  old  dear! 
Devotedly, 

JANE  VAIL  DAKAGH. 
(Mrs.  Michael  Daragh!!!) 
P.S.    Sally,  dearest,  remember  what  I  said,  the 

295 


JANE   JOUENEYS   ON 


night  before  I  left  Wetherby  Eidge  for  the  first 
time? — That  I  wasn't  really  "going  away"  from 
you  all,  but  only  ' '  going  on  1 "  I  lost  my  way  for  a 
while,  Sally;  I  was  content  with  just  "getting  on," 
but  he  found  me  and  herded  me  sternly  back  to  the 
highroad,  and  now,  always  and  forevermore,  no 
credit  to  the  likes  of  me,  but  because  I've  espoused 
the  Captain-General  of  the  Hosts  of  Heaven,  I'll 
be  going  on — and  on — with  Michael  Daragh. 
And,  oh,  my  dear,  but  indeed — as  he  said  of  me 
long  ago — I  have  been  anointed  with  the  oil  of 
joy  above  my  fellows! 

3.  y,  D. 


(1) 


Novels  for  Cheerful  Entertainment 


GALUSHA  THE  MAGNIFICENT 

By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln 
Author  of  "Shavings,"  "The  Partygee."  etc. 

The  whole  family  will  laugh  over  this  deliciously  humorous  novel,  that 
pictures  the  sunny  side  of  small-town  life,  and  contains  love-making, 
a  dash  of  mystery,  an  epidemic  of  spook-chasing — and  laughable, 
lovable  Galusha. 

THESE   YOUNG  REBELS 

By  Frances  R.  Sterrett 
Author  of  "Nancy  Goes  to  Town"  "  Up  the  Road  with  Sally,"  etc. 

A  sprightly  novel  that  hits  off  to  perfection  the  present  antagonism 
between  the  rebellious  younger  generation  and  their  disapproving  elders* 

PLAY  THE  GAME 

By  Ruth  Comfort  Mitchell 

A  happy  story  about  American  young  people.  The  appealing  qualities 
of  a  brave  young  girl  stand  out  in  the  strife  between  two  young  fellows, 
the  one  by  fair  the  other  by  foul  means,  to  win  her. 

IN  BLESSED  CYRUS 

By  Laura  E.  Richards 
Author  of  "A  Daughter  of  Jehu,"  etc. 

The  quaint,  quiet  village  of  Cyrus,  with  its  whimsical  villagers,  is  abruptly 
turned  topsy-turvy  by  the  arrival  in  its  midst  of  an  actress,  distractingly 
feminine,  Lila  Laughter;  and,  at  the  same  time,  an  epidemic  of  small-pox. 

HELEN   OF  THE   OLD   HOUSE 

By  Harold  Bell  Wright 

Wright's  greatest  novel,  that  presents  the  life  of  industry  to-day,  the 
laughter,  the  tears,  the  strivings  of  those  who  live  about  the  smoky 
chimneys  of  an  American  industrial  town. 

NEW  YORK     D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY     LONDON 

T700       " -—_—————  • 


Popular  Appleton  Fiction 


THE  GREEN  BOUGH 

By  E.  Temple  Thurston 
Author  of  "The  CXy  of  Beautiful  Nonsense,"  etc. 

A  powerful  story  of  a  great  passion  and  of  a  woman  who  was  not  afraid  of 
life.  Much  interest  has  been  aroused  by  this  portrayal  of  a  woman's 
struggle  for  romance. 

THE  AGE  OF  INNOCENCE 

By  Edith  Wharton 
Author  of  "The  House  of  Mirth,"  "The  Reef,"  etc. 

The  novel  about  New  York  society  that  won  the  31,000  Pulitzer  Prize 
as  the  novel  of  the  year  best  representing  "the  highest  standard  of 
American  manners  and  manhood." 

MISS  LULU  BETT 

By  Zona  Gale 

Shows  American  life  as  it  is.  In  a  household  typical  of  every  town  in 
the  country,  Miss  Lulu  Bett,  "the  unmarried  sister"  was  the  drudge. 
Read  "Miss  Lulu  Bett"  as  a  novel  or  in  its  play  form  (winner  of  the 
31,000  Pulitzer  Prize  as  the  best  American  play  of  the  year). 

CARTER  And   Other  People 

By  Don  Marquis 
Author  of  "Noah  an'  jonah  an*  Cap'n  John  Smith,"  " Hermione,"  "Prefaces,"  etc. 

Short  stories  about  subjects  ranging  from  the  tragedy  of  race  to  the 
comedy  of  a  hero  who  did  not  know  he  was  one,  each  presenting  a  vivid 
slice  of  life. 

LOW  CEILINGS 

By  W.  Douglas  Newton 
Author  of 'Green  Ladies,"  etc. 

A  young  fellow  tries  to  make  the  most  of  himself,  but  is  tied  down  by 
the  suburban  narrowness  of  his  environment.  An  interesting  plot 
shows  two  women  as  representing  the  best  and  worst  that  is  in  him. 

These  Are  Appleton  Books 

T699 


Absorbing  Adventure  and  Romance 


YOUTH  TRIUMPHANT 

By  George  Gibbs 
Author  of  ''The  Vagrant  Duke,"  "The  Splendid  Outcast,"  etc. 

A  mystery  follows  Patsy,  the  heroine,  from  the  days  of  her  Bowery 
tenement  childhood  to  the  later  years  when  the  comforts  and  happiness 
of  a  luxurious  home  are  hers.  Interesting  characters  participate  in  her 
colorful  adventures. 

THE   HOUSE  OF  THE   FALCON 

By  Harold  Lamb 
Author  of  "Marching  Sands" 

Kidnapped  while  visiting  India,  an  American  girl  is  the  prize  for  whicb 
natives  fight,  amid  the  wondrous  scenes  of  the  Vale  of  Kashmir. 

THE  UNSEEN  EAR 

By  Natalie  Sumner  Lincoln 
Author  of  "The  Red  Seal."  "The  Three  Strings,"  etc. 

An  absolutely  baffling  mystery,  hinging  on  a  murder  committed  in 
Washington's  smart  set. 

THE  SAMOVAR  GIRL 

By  Frederick  Moore 
Author  of  "Sailor  Girl,"  etc. 

Seeking  revenge,  but  finding  romance,  a  young  man  returns  to  his 
native  Siberia  after  years  in  America. 

THE  INNOCENT  ADVENTURESS 

By  Mary  Hastings  Bradley 
Author  of  "The  Fortieth  Door,"  etc. 

"Most  piquant  little  love  story  of  any  recent  writing." — New  York 
Evening  World.  A  lovely  Italian  goes  adventuring  in  America,  seeking 
a  wealthy  husband. 

NEW  YORK  D.  APPLETON  &  COMPANY  LONDON 


Splendid  Books  for  Girls 


THE  POOR  LITTLE  RICH  GIRL 

By  Eleanor  Gates 

This  famous  story  is  full  of  fancy  and  beauty.  It  tells  how  little 
Gwendolyn  found  the  childhood  happiness  that  she  was  denied  as  a 
rich  little  girl. 

GEORGINA  OF  THE  RAINBOWS 

By  Annie  Fellows  Johnston 

Georgina  is  a  delicate-minded,  inquisitive  child  who  has  amusing  fancies 
and  a  delightful  way  with  grownups. 

GEORGINA'S  SERVICE  STARS 

By  Annie  Fellows  Johnston 

The  girlhood  of  Georgina,  when  boarding  school,  dances,  and  romance 
among  her  girl  friends,  culminate  in  her  own  pretty  story. 

EMMY  LOU'S  ROAD  TO   GRACE 

By  George  Madden  Martin 

Emmy  Lou  might  forget  her  prayers,  spread  whooping-cough,  attend 
the  circus  instead  of  the  Sunday  School  picnic,  yet  she  remained  a  child 
who  goes  straight  to  the  reader's  heart. 

MARY  ROSE  OF  MIFFLIN 

By  Frances  R.  Sterrett 

What  Mary  Rose  found  in  the  way  of  nice  folks  when  she  came  to 
live  in  the  stiff  and  formal  city  apartment  house. 

MARY-'GUSTA 

By  Joseph  C.  Lincoln 

A  humorous  and  human  story  of  a  little  girl  who  mothers  her  two  Cape 
Cod  guardians,  a  bachelor  and  a  widower,  in  spite  of  all  their  attempts 
to  bring  her  up. 

These  Are  Appleton  Books 

T702 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 
BERKELEY 

Return  to  desk  from  which  borrowed. 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


DEC    7  1953m 


LD  21-100m-7,'52(A2528sl6)476 


YB  33453 


M532974 


* 


